Alan: Sitting still, centering... one of those times when everything comes into focus.
Back, Then Down
Sent back to wait for her in the woods,
he became alone as happens too seldom.
The others disappeared, even their voices.
He caught his breath sitting at the trailhead,
and as the sweat dried his senses moved outward again
from his own running.
Why had they arranged themselves so,
this place, these objects?
these lichens, mosses, stumps and trunks of trees,
moist and sharp smells,
sounds of the sky changing around them?
As if they so welcomed him, in assemblage,
that he could set roots here, or they in him.
After a time,
he went down. At camp
he found her boots, laced from the rocker,
pulling from shadow toward the pooled sun
the way bare feet arch over water
Nancy: Save, salvage, re-use – my sickle, made of a ground down scythe blade and a branch with a nice curve, the trivet an old stove lid, the eel spear a clam fork broken and re-shaped... so many mended, re-worked and re-purposed tools.
Junk Store Treasure
Shards of your life,
almost as strange to us
rough shaped flints.
I like the tools best.
Shaped for tasks we have forgotten.
Handles all organic curves
as if you saw them growing –
“See how my thumb will lie on here.”
The rest a clutter:
you sought comfort,
as much as we.
Found beauty in your tasks,