The Nature of Work

A purpose and a resilience you seek,
A legacy that's both strong and not weak.
Though wages are earned in a standard affair,
Its meaning runs deeper than money or fare.

My time I will freely and eagerly give,
A peace and a truth help my spirit to live.
A resource so precious, demanding and hard,
It mends all the parts that my daily work marred.

Some jobs I have held were both taxing and stark,
They left a deep strain, a significant mark.
I think of the patients with spirits so brave,
Whose palliative journeys led straight to the grave.

To stand in a room where the moments are few,
As one nears the crossing to something brand new.
This skill is not taught, but a profound calling's claim,
To be the kind human who whispers their name.

The Wounded Healer

 They walk with limps you cannot see,

And hide their scars in empathy.
They’ve weathered storms you’ll never name,
And still they kneel beside your flame.

Their hands may tremble, hearts may ache,
Yet still they soothe what others break.
For pain has carved in them a space
Where others find a resting place.

They do not flinch at cries or tears,
They’ve made a home of shattered years.
They’ve bled, they’ve bowed, they’ve begged the night,
And now they lend you borrowed light.

They won’t pretend to have the cure,
But they will sit, and they’ll endure.
Not fixing just the sacred art
Of holding you when things fall apart.

For those who’ve lived the ache you bear
Will never ask you not to care.
They’ll let you feel, they’ll let you be,
And love you in your agony.

So trust the voice that's soft but sure,
The one who knows what you endure,
For sometimes only hearts that break
Can feel the weight another takes.