Work and love are in a constant tango, approaching, retreating and combining. Some work is love. Some love is work. Some work is just work. Some love is divine.

The Italian sonnet, the little song, has always been about love; most often that love not quite able to be achieved or conquered -- more Romantic and imagined than realized. But the dignity of labor and the honesty of work are physical and direct and unavoidable.

Together: Desire = Love + Work.

The Work of Love

The work of love is not the love of work.
Work will not make you free. Take it from me.
I could drone on for years; did for thirty.
Love should not hide but labor should be shirked.
Does a leashed dog appreciate the jerk
At the other end? Call it family,
A team, and the tyrant boss "our Daddy"
As if his abuse was a petty perk?

But when our own desire controls our hearts
And says: "Work must be done again." "Begin.",
We put on worn jeans, caps, and sweat-stiff gloves --
Preparations, ways to delay our start --.
So much before us seems immense -- just then
The love of work becomes the work of love.