The rise and fall of gods that have danced
among the alabaster pillars of men’s brains,
playing hide and seek upon a marbled floor—
an ever-changing Maxfield Parrish scene
apart from dark-eyed Greed and Power skulking
in the shadows either side of the garden,
begins in delightful innocence. We lowered
our shoulders to the wagon, men and boys,
to get the harvest in, leaned with the grace
of a team of mules in the narrow vine rows.
And we were proud, young bulls to work
as one before the dance of efficiency,
before the purring explosions of machinery,
before production stole that sweet satisfaction
from our common soul. There was no call
for ordinary men, nor need for common
sensibilities—we were unemployed and fed
to the faceless storm of another urgency.
Age may bring heavy burdens, but at worst
measures steps for a slower choreography—
ever-listening for that mantra of the harvest.
drycrikjournal 