Love Labors Small

Of Love and all her labors

The Bard once did us tell,

The winning and the losing,

Her labors, all meant well.

He's not alone in seeking

To shed light on mystique

The phenomenon of love,

His search far from unique.

The poets all did wonder,

And sought then to explain,

Why love seemed to them, and us,

A treasured thing to gain.

"Love's Labours Lost," to begin,

And then "Love's Labours Won,"

I think, if the love is true,

The labor's never done.

Anyone can find simple

Flowery things to say,

Buy roses and boxed chocolate

On St. Valentine's Day.

These all are not the labors

Of love that's meant to last,

They're used as an overture

'Fore something more steadfast.

Mother in the midst of night,

Child cradled in her arms,

Knows well of steady, strong love

The trials and the charms.

The daughter who's heard the tale

A hundred times, at least,

But to her ailing father,

Listens she, 'fore tales do cease.

Friends who, to a wedding, trek

Quite far, to celebrate,

For they'd never miss a night

That they'd commemorate.

The nurse who holds the patient

Who's dying in her hands,

The father who works, always,

Kid's needs do oft demand.

The hundreds of good meals cooked,

The stranger's helping hand,

A thousand little labors,

Love does, when added, grand.

All just a pale reflection

Of the greatest Love of all,

We oft want the grand gesture,

But Love oft labors small.

Small sacrificial actions

Build a fortress of love

Familial or romantic,

Whatever need thereof.

In hard but precious moments,

An off'ring, odor sweet,

Perhaps that's what it means

To be the hands and feet.

*Reference to William Shakespeare's "Love's Labours Lost" and "Love's Labours Won" in title and throughout