Easy Does It

Why do you have to try so hard to make sense of the part of you that glows?  Quit trying to find cryptic meanings and just glow because you were made to.  Switch off the machine of your curiosity, your gears are grinding and they need to cool down.

Never mind the unknown ages of starfish and disperse your intricate web of energy.  Glow, and be willing to believe in yourself. 

Funny how we all live so close together we’re practically stitched, but fake separation.  Your country has its wonders, glorious, its atrocities, shameful.    

Maybe you’re a great white shark – you didn’t intend any of this.  How others perceive you does not define who you are.  Maybe you’re a hammerhead, a mermaid, I don’t know.  Maybe you fan the water like a whale’s fluke, sway like seagrass, eat from the smooth prism of an abalone shell.

Maybe you’re a pollinator: without you all life would vanish, humanity owes itself to you.  But the burden doesn’t matter, the concept isn’t even within your field of awareness.

You just rise every morning and do what you were made to do: your work.  What, you may ask yourself, is my work?  Don’t let anyone else answer that question for you.

 

Field Row’s End

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.