Surprised at the round

potato look of the thing,

would make a good kneading rock,

wash stone, tomahawk;

he holds it in his hand

rubbing the mud from side to side

with his thumb.

Wiping his brow with the other sleeve,

he decides to keep it, tosses it

to the other side of the field, nearest

the tent and begins the one-footed plow


At night, he wraps the bandanna

around his neck, starts back,

picks up the rock,

plants it at the corner, on the edge,

lights his pipe and watches the smoke

rise from his lips.


We live in an age in which ordinariness is eschewed for its incapacity to create bliss. Yet it is this very ordinariness that is the only promise there is of the kind of presence that makes room for joy.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014


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