Field Row’s End

ox turns at field row’s end

the onions, tomatoes, zucchini and dill

 

the luminous strands of March

get up, get ready, to work, to begin

 

get up, get ready, to work, to follow

the arc of the world, the slope of the light

 

earth beneath thumbnail

knees pressed in soil

 

clods of mud smear rubber boots

and we, the workers

 

anchored to weather

with its moods, whims, dictations

 

we, the workers

fastened to the ox and the engine of his breath

 

fastened to the fields

splashing around in our patience

 

working until it is no longer work,

but who we are and what we do

 

settling down to seek the stillness of evening

we have become the work itself

 

we are the field, the ox

we are the onions, the mud

 

watching attentively, listening closely

viewing ourselves as if through a microscope

 

the metronome held in the bone-basket of our ribs,

its momentum not yet interrupted

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