“work”

The morning hum begins before the light,  
A gentle shuffle, desk lamps flicker on—  
Coffee steams its promise for the fight,  
A marathon before the day is gone.  

Emails bloom like wildflowers on the screen,  
Each message tagged with urgent, “Must reply.”  
A tangled web of tasks, both loud and keen,  
As deadlines whisper, racing swiftly by.  

Yet in this bustle, meeting’s measured tones,  
There breaths a subtle poetry of hands:  
A spreadsheet’s grid, the turning of the phones,  
And stories built from sturdy, human plans.  

We dream in documents and charted stars,  
Build bridges from the memos that we send—  
In cubicles, in kitchens, near and far,  
The labor of our days finds noble end.  

Beneath fluorescent skies or window’s sun,  
There lies a quiet pride in what’s been done—  
For work, in all its shapes and forms begun,  
Is more than toil: it is the thread we’ve spun.

Create Your Own Poem | Recent Poems