Ruth Mattison

Woman’s Work  (A sonnet)

A woman will lift her head
to soothe and sort out all around
But, she forgets to look within
because her work is never done.
Inside she’s far too messy
to begin the task at hand
Those inward parts of her
that have nowhere to land
never rise above her muted heart
and so do not expand
Echoes of emptiness are never heard
for busyness is her command
Standing on the edge of Life
all jobs are done except her Self

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