A Man’s Work

How does a man sort out his purpose on this earth?
With his hands and his work.
How does he sort out his Monday morning,
when he hears it’s the economy, it’s politics, it’s the devil, it’s God.
He looks at the big, strong hands of a man meant to use them.
It is what his father did.
It is what his father’s father did. His father’s
Father never really knew his dad so I suppose
he looked upon the puzzle
of those big, strong hands and worked out his salvation with
turning soil and planting rows, straight to heaven.
The toil, the sweat, the callouses were called good. The ache reminded
him of a reason to be here.
There is no fame or accolades in the labor of every day.
But to him it is enough.
When there is no rain, when there is too much rain, he prays
to the Most High
not asking for wealth or prosperity. He gets on his broken-down
knees and pleads
for continued purpose. He wants to keep his big, strong hands.
When the harvest is good, he is perplexed.
For what is work without challenge?
Without disaster nipping the heels? Comfort and ease are unnatural.
So what does a man do when there is no work?
A man gazes on the legacy of big, strong
hands with no cuts, no callouses, and no ache that defines purpose.
It wrecks his soul.
He prays to the Most High on broken-down knees, unsure if it’ll reach.
He prays for his hands.
This man, who wants to work, gets up and mails another resume.
A handprint.