it is a thankless task
sweeping together
the parts of a person
dismantled by the wind
gauging by feel and heft
if everything is there
the limbs paired
the feet engaged
that they might carry the assemblage
through another day
it is the endless toil
of hands callousing
on rope and tiller
tacking into the source
acting as your own look-out
bo’s’un cargo and ballast
or on the metal plough
hacked and chilled by frost
while plodding the hillside
looking always into the earth
opening turning burying
then leaving the field to settle
while you linger in the stable
a little longer than you need to
listening to the movements
of tired horses
