Even muscles, drained in splitting
stumps or heavy fork of haying, stack
agony like sap dripping from injured
trees until tissues scar, mend,
subsiding in relief, in new vigor.
Things build: wheat stretches,
corn expands, weeds wander, weave,
wallowing in pleasures of abandoned
spaces, forbidden acres and inches.
Tonight, fire engines scream just one
block away, rushing to a sudden light.
Tonight, Mount St. Helen growls in discontent;
Vesuvius, Etna, and others turn one eye upwards.
Solar flares stretch impossible arms,
interrupting radio waves, carrying cancer.
We see this only through telescopes, Hubble—our
minds uneasy with ignorance, mysteries, enigmas.
Still we slap mosquitos, spray Spring hornets,
trim surging Summer greens, split Fall wood,
peel Winter flesh. Caught in the joy of doing,
we embrace these throes with hearts ready to burst.
