Labor's Day

walk the dog
trailing behind to pick up the remains in a used
newspaper bag, depositing the warm stink
into the trash.
this is the start of the days work,
well done.
we walk together along the creek taking in the smell
of the forest, feeling the gravel, hearing the grind
of stone against stone.
this is pleasure
we would not have enjoyed without the work.
digging strawberry plants from the ground and
moving them in the hot sun from one place to another
where they will fruit next year.
this is work
next year the taste of fresh strawberries
against our tongues will be pleasure.
it will not be without this work.
tomorrow i will return to work and
when I sip wine next year in a small French cafe
in the Alps, I will remember that this work allowed me
such pleasures.