Except That a Grain of Wheat

For J. F.

“Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.”
—A. E. Housman, LX

Time comes when a soul withdraws:
It strips away whatever won’t be missed—
Maybe, too, some measure of what will—
To seek itself in sharpest finitude,
Polished and refurbished like the blade
New-freed from the rust of luxury,
The dullness of all desperate distraction.

Sickle-blades are bent for better reaping,
So this soul must bend its back to labour:
Cutting fistfuls close against the ground;
Whetstone handy, regularly used;
Binding bundles into sheaves with straw;
Stacking these in stooks for desiccation—
Harvest gathered in, more brutal labour
Sits in silence on the threshing floor.

Soon enough, the chaff infests the air
Like so much idle talk
Gusting off to wherever wind blows:
So simplified and stripped of all excess,
Again the grain is dried, then sacked
And stowed until a stone or still
Should be employed upon it.

So, for now, come find me dozing fitfully until,
Haggard and disheveled (preoccupied, perhaps,
With many other matters) and yet punctual,
Love shambles in to rouse me to the world.

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I know it’s been quite a while since the last post—holidays and then Winter’s vicious maw have kept me from finishing anything until today. There are a couple other pieces nearing completion and I hope to have them finished and published… if not before the end of Winter, with luck by early Spring. Sometimes one can only work on what one has and finishing anything simply has to wait.

I write for the sake of what it is that I write and whether anything gets any views or ‘engagement’ is largely irrelevant to that motivation; but if you have any inclination, I’ll make it easy for you to