An Article of Faith
Confess, I will, to a
pleasure
in the raising of the
post-hole digger,
after eyeing a spot on this
earth,
then to drive the blades into
the ground,
the sudden shock of contact,
to make void
something solid, an emptying,
a vacancy.
Of course, in the planting of
a tree, I must kneel
to the ground—a gardener’s
bench needed
for these old knees—and
having set the tree,
I must settle it into place,
my head bowed,
the sun on my neck—and a
little burn
to remind me of my place in
the world—
and with my bare hands I fill
what I had emptied,
compressing and grooming the
dirt,
believing that it must be
just so and not open
to chance. But, chance too
becomes part of this offering,
to a future that I may not
see,
that someone may come along
someday
and, in a moment of
contemplation, wonder
about these hands that worked
in that moment
of planting, or someone to
sit in the shade, a respite
from the heat, at repose, in
gratitude.
Ladson 2013
No
Ax to Grind
Of late I hold no ax to grind—
out of sight, simply out of hand.
Not without impulse sure—
mostly smoke these days, little fire.
Plenty of kindling there is in this world,
but I choose not to gather fuel
nor strike a match—unlighted,
a peace on earth, or my slice
at least as I would have it.
How long to last I cannot say—
easily unwound the warp and weft
of our daily spin.
So, I wait.
I watch.
I wish.
Lyman
2021
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