Facing Fussy Jane

One can tire of purpose. I have, Jane,
And, thus, this rotten weather leaves
Me cheerier than those, like you, who
Fret, deprived of things to do. The yard
Is wet. You cannot garden, but the
Sunday paper's here, and coffee's
Brewing. Sit, my sweet, and read,
Or, better, contemplate. What is
The point of all our labor?
I contend it's this.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 23 times
Written on 2013-06-23 at 15:26

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