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