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A Deep Fear of Emptiness
Wheels of baled hay bask in October sun: Gold circles strewn across the sloping field, They seem arranged as if each one Has found its place; together they appeal To some glimpsed order in my mind...
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Brooding Over the Bent World
I will show wonders in the heavens above and signs on the earth below, blood and fire and billows of smoke. The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the...
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Running Over the Headed Grass
Light and wind are running over the headed grass as though the hill had melted and now flowed. ~Wendell Berry “June Wind” It is haying time now, as soon as another stretch of clear days...
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Their Hands Swinging Together
Light shone from the back of her eyes. He had a broad, deep laugh that could hold anyone in its bowl of sound. They didn’t speak of the inevitable. Were amazed by the fire that burned in their bodies....
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Wake with the Light
Light wakes us – there’s the sun climbing the mountains’ rim, spilling across the valley, finding our faces. It is July, between the hay and harvest, a time at arm’s length from all...
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What I’ve Gone and Done
Why do we bother with the rest of the day, the swale of the afternoon, the sudden dip into evening, then night with his notorious perfumes, his many-pointed stars? This is the best— throwing off...
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Smells That Speak
The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings,...
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Work Gloves
My farm work gloves look beat up after a year of service. They keep me from blistering while forking innumerable loads of smelly manure into wheelbarrows, but also help me unkink frozen...
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An Advent Paradox: From Filth to Flowers
The poor, old stable of Christ’s old, poor country is only four rough walls, a dirty pavement, a roof of beams and slate. It is dark, reeking. The only clean thing in it is the manger where the...
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Baling Twine Beatitudes
My hands are torn by baling twine, not nails, and my side is piercedby my ulcer, not a lance.~Hayden Carruth from “Emergency Haying” Blessed are the miles of baling twine encirclingtons of hay in our...
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