LABORERS IN THE FIELD OF MUSES

(For James Still)

I was but in the far flung genes,

Spinning along in fixed tracks

Toward a sure destiny,

When he carefully cleared the mythical field of muses--

Weeding words and sentences

And sayings

Into honest row of conversation. . .

Heaped

And raked

And pulled

From a stubborn Earth with the liquid rhythm of his hoe.

Practical and careful--

Wary of the fragile, gripping roots--

He hoed out between Dead Mare and Wolfpen,

To weave his way by the bare cabins dotting Little Carr Creek.

Following hollows

And circling, airy smoke

From the lichen colored chimneys,

He plowed paragraphs around ancient trees,

And hunkered in the cool of evening hollow shade,

Forging links metaphors and context made.

With feather hammers striking true,

What he heard and saw

Fell

Floating into form and place.

In the cool Appalachian mists,

He became the plow,

The rhythmical hoe,

The chain connected. . .

Blow by blow.

He became the field he made,

A laborer

In the rows and rows.