carrying the mark

how everything everywhere today
is about that early october light:
the patch of light on the knobby cane
as i lift it from wagon to mill,
the light as it melts molten behind treeline
while we feast outdoors on our dinner pizza,
the square of sun falling through loft window
onto pillow and how i land on its warmth,
the light in rivers eyes at dinner circle
revealing a bluegreen i didn’t know was there,
the light that dries my socks on the line and the light
that assures me it’s still there
by landing strong on my skin
on the dusty tractor-haul to the fields

even though it begins to disappear
somewhere in the 7 o’clock hour these days
_______
this is the rhythm i think
as liat and i feed bundles of cane
handful by handful into the clanking
whirring rolling mill
_______

liat and i reveal
scratched-up forearms/fingers
due to the machete’d sharpness of cane ends.
how i have always liked carrying marks
of the work i’ve done/places i’ve been/people i’m with
_______
liat’s palmful of
perfectly melting-ish fruits
peach-orange colored persimmons
offered
_______

high pitch steam-made sound
escaping the boiler whistle
down at the sugar shack
and moving out in all directions
like the mark a pebble makes on pond-surface
when its tossed in
_______

the perfect weighty orb-ness
smooth where the papery coating has broken open
on the largest tomatillos
of the harvest
_______

because anything is pretty funny
when it is (out-of-scale) big macon says
in reference to the oversize chalice
she is sculpting

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Filed under poems, poetry, writing

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