Labor Day
officially ends summer,
As those who work enjoy one final fling.
Blessed are those who bear the daily burden,
Of whom few savants speak or minstrels sing,
Returning to the shallows of September.
Days of ease give way to hours certain,
A long routine that wends its way towards winter,
Yearning for the promises of spring.
Labor is the burden of our being,
A weight that weds us firmly to the earth,
Blessed servitude that serves a common meaning
On which each may erect a sense of worth.
Remember, then, the beauty of a calling
Demanding both integrity and skill:
A dancer in the drifts of early morning,
Yet traveling towards sunset through sheer will.
Labor leaves us little time to live
As we are given less than we must give,
Being but the undistinguished sea
On which may sail those who catch the wind.
Reason not with sailors, but together
Designate the furies of your weather,
And storm, if storm the wayward watchword be,
Yielding waves that little leave behind.
Let’s not minimize the role of thugs
And gangsters in the history of labor.
Beasts and saints together weave the rugs
On which we walk, and ordinary folk
Rendering allegiance to whomever.
Desperate now, the unions bear the yoke
Abjectly of their presidents-for-life.
Yet workers still must organize and strike.
