I am thrilled to have this poem appear in the current issue of The Cape Rock literary journal from Southeast Missouri University.
Field Row’s End
Ox turns at field row’s end –
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.
Dirt beneath thumbnail,
knees imprint the 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.
Tuning in to the stillness of evening,
we have become the work itself.
We are the field, the ox.
We are the onions, the mud, and content to be so.
Watching attentively, listening closely,
we view ourselves as if through a microscope,
our metronome held in the bone-basket of our ribs,
its momentum not yet interrupted.