Digging to the Rock
Something is killing a patch of grass
in the bright center of the backyard.
We dig three feet down before we find it --
rock, rattling up the spade
as though it had struck power.
We widen the hole, but this day,
we do not find edges. In the oriental twilight
we lay back on the heap of the day's work,
rocking sweating bottles into the loose soil,
talking a garden with this stone a mountain --
foothills of azalea, a soft sea of phlox.
The next day the rock becomes big
as a kitchen table, and bottomless --
a taproot of bedrock, groping towards air.
_______
An old minor poem that I dug out after someone reminded me of the place I drafted it: the lovely woods and wildflower meadows between the Nishnabatna and Troublesome Rivers in Iowa, near the campus at ISU.
It's still a minor poem, but now it has cleaner lines.
Doing a little Otter work, too. Maybe a new chapter tomorrow?
4 Comments
“Doing a little Otter work, too. Maybe a new chapter tomorrow?” WOW that’s great!
Oooh, Otter, I can hardly wait! bounces like a crazed comic ferret
Thanks for posting the poem Erin! The fact that you’ve been to my great-grandfather’s woods and written there just reminds me of how small this world is. I wish they could spell our last name consistently correctly though. :)
That’s a fascinating poem. Sounds like there’s a story in it.
I notice you use “lay” instead of “lie,” though. That always jolts me—it just sounds wrong. It’s not standard English yet, is it?