A Prayer Garden
I tear at the ground as best as I can
it is hard georgia clay
the roots of the azaleas lace into it
Ian is making progress on the southwest corner
softspoken. He goes to San Francisco Friday
At first there were alot of us
working together, doing nothing much at all
Old people who could not work as hard as the young
Too many chiefs
Not enough Indians
Ian has cut a straight line now
the sweat falls from his brow
I am throwing the dirt into a pile
A speck flies up into my eye
blinded, but just for now
Would I be done, if it weren't for you?
Do I need you to keep me going?
Who is to blame for my being here?
We laugh when I say, that I hope we can get some extra credit against sin
for doing these deeds
After all
Friday. I have plans.
I cut
tangled roots beneath the sharp edge of my hoe
Ian is done with his side
We two are racing each other
quietly
to cut ten feett by twelve beneath an eave
The children are playing behind the church
And suddenly we are done
the sun setting low
I want to carry on
Instead. we chose to go.
This simple act of building
Is it enough?
No. I need more
like in my private life
I seek extremes. I want to drink deeply of this work.
To work until my hands were no longer soft
And sweat ran from my brow
And the garden was complete
But the children were ready to go
And so I left.
Thinking of you
The one that I have written to , all this time
Always there in my mind
Ian
Still cutting the garden into place
nods his head
I turn and leave the prayer garden
Maybe its like I read , in the book
No country for old men
If I am really making a difference
I wish I could see it being finished
but I have a tiger cub and sister to take to the wood
camping
maybe one day we could meet
talk. agree. disagree
here
when it is done
And you and I could clear away the brush
and rest in each others company
In the shadow of the cross
and scent of azalea
and the sound of cars
and people gathering, at night, for narcotics anonymous
tattoos on their arms
The sound of the faraway city like the ocean
Some summer night
it is hard georgia clay
the roots of the azaleas lace into it
Ian is making progress on the southwest corner
softspoken. He goes to San Francisco Friday
At first there were alot of us
working together, doing nothing much at all
Old people who could not work as hard as the young
Too many chiefs
Not enough Indians
Ian has cut a straight line now
the sweat falls from his brow
I am throwing the dirt into a pile
A speck flies up into my eye
blinded, but just for now
Would I be done, if it weren't for you?
Do I need you to keep me going?
Who is to blame for my being here?
We laugh when I say, that I hope we can get some extra credit against sin
for doing these deeds
After all
Friday. I have plans.
I cut
tangled roots beneath the sharp edge of my hoe
Ian is done with his side
We two are racing each other
quietly
to cut ten feett by twelve beneath an eave
The children are playing behind the church
And suddenly we are done
the sun setting low
I want to carry on
Instead. we chose to go.
This simple act of building
Is it enough?
No. I need more
like in my private life
I seek extremes. I want to drink deeply of this work.
To work until my hands were no longer soft
And sweat ran from my brow
And the garden was complete
But the children were ready to go
And so I left.
Thinking of you
The one that I have written to , all this time
Always there in my mind
Ian
Still cutting the garden into place
nods his head
I turn and leave the prayer garden
Maybe its like I read , in the book
No country for old men
If I am really making a difference
I wish I could see it being finished
but I have a tiger cub and sister to take to the wood
camping
maybe one day we could meet
talk. agree. disagree
here
when it is done
And you and I could clear away the brush
and rest in each others company
In the shadow of the cross
and scent of azalea
and the sound of cars
and people gathering, at night, for narcotics anonymous
tattoos on their arms
The sound of the faraway city like the ocean
Some summer night
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