the bricklayer

he lifts each
brick, his thick
fingers cut raw
but the callous
claw of hand
keeps going, one
after the other
smoothing the mortar
until there is
a wall. then
the scaffold is
moved to the other
side and another
day begins. and in
this way his life
moves on, from
season to season,
taking what he
earns home, to feed
his family, to keep
things going,
each house a testament
of will, a symbol
perhaps not so
much of love, or
joy, but survival.