Poetry By John Cannon


Reflections I
Poetry By John Cannon

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Reflections I
Poetry By John Cannon

For just a few hours
I work hard with hands
and simple tools
made of wood and metal,
no motors or fancy gizmos,
 
chopping, digging, clearing away
the tenacious robust weeds
that have grown so fast and hardy
 
trying to take over the field,
trying to choke out
the small seedlings
that are struggling
but oh so beautiful
 
just seeking
a small place in the sun.
 
And as I work,
sweating, bending
my old and aching back,
I think about
thousands of others ―
the very old and very young ―
 
doing this kind of difficult work
 
not as a hobby,
 
not for just a few short hours
now and then
 
but all day, every day
for all of their lives
 
just trying to get by,
to survive
the only way they know,
 
just trying to keep
their small place on this earth,
 
and I think
how terribly spoiled
and privileged and grateful
 
and immensely
blessed
 
am I.