Use of a Tool
in the fall,
the maroon, crimson, rust colored, dried leaves
descend on barren ground
from elm trees in metamorphosis
we grab the rake
we don’t ask,
if it would like to be used?
or how it feels today?
we utilize the tool
and the object of our desire… has no say
palm sweat eats away at the handle
corrosion builds on it’s metal, curved teeth
the staff wobbles from countless years of toil
with no relief…
it cleans the landscape
removing muck and debris
but the rake’s relative importance is brief
with no power to be anything other
than it’s intended purpose
the life of being another’s tool is cheap
these are the feelings i have
when a job is content
with using and abusing me
Thank you for reading, Esha ❤
300triedbywater.com 