Housewives & Housework

In the morning light, soft and still,

She wakes, her heart a vessel to fill.

With the quiet hum of life she starts,

A steady rhythm, the work of hearts.

Hands that wash and hands that mend,

A cycle of care that has no end.

Sweeping floors and wiping tears,

Through the mundane, her love appears.

The broom becomes a brush in her hand,

Painting peace where dust may land.

The kitchen sings with pots and pans,

A symphony guided by unseen hands.

She is the keeper of stories untold,

In the warmth of bread, in sheets she folds.

Her laughter echoes through these walls,

A melody caught in the house’s halls.

Not for glory, nor for praise,

She moves through ordinary days.

A silent strength, a whispered grace,

She holds the home, a sacred space.

For in her work, a world is spun,

Each task a thread, each day begun.

And though the world may look away,

Her labor builds the light of day.

She is the heart, the hidden flame,

Her love and work are one and the same.

In the house she makes a life,

More than a housewife, she is life’s light.