From What the Welsh and Chinese Have In Common

Not The Moon

There is something in rising

early, when dark has opened

hidden doors and my brother's

breathing is rhythmic, then stepping

into the wet field. All night,

grass has waited to grow.

Plodding leaves of mullein set

a base for its yellow tower.

A persistence of vines channels

through corn and rye without distinction.

I wonder if grace is like that,

growing in private, finding its strength

in the secluded world. My feet don't

tangle with briars; slender

blades of rye moisten my skin.

At field's edge, the tractor on its side

and the gray cypress stump draw light

around themselves. When I walk the row

toward them, the earth feels uneven.

I remember the tractor tipping

slowly as it dug into soft soil like

an oak that has strayed past its time.

The old man leapt clear and his son

held to the broad metal seat

as if it could save him.

A week later we would laugh about it;

the old man, still shaken, and his son

with one arm in a sling. Tonight I walk

to the edge and touch the machine. I begin

to brace myself against the cold engine,

wires connecting plugs to distributor are

already twisted with kudzu. Desire

to lift overcomes me, frayed paint

sticks to my skin like burrs,

damp clay finds my ankles then calves.

I turn gradually to the field and notice

a faint glow holding to the hollow.

Paul_Jones@unc.edu

Next In Kurdistan
Previous In White