A God-fearing man did not labor
On the Sabbath, or witch for water
During the week, or work charms
For warts or rain. When he told her
We were going to the bottomland
After Sunday dinner, it would be
To see if that oak limb had fallen yet
Or whether the crows were in the corn.
The scythe would be hidden already
Out by the gate, buried knee-deep
In Queen Anne’s lace. We would sit
On the front-porch swing listening
To her read scripture, until bees
Drifting about the clematis vine
Made her drowsy. When she leaned
Into sleep, he eased her body
Against the cushions, and waved me
Toward the gate.
I think we became
Her dream: child with the same eyes
And silver hair as his, running bare-
Headed; old man bent like the scythe
He carried–for no apparent reason,
No grass high enough there to mow,
The land swept clean by the glacier,
By ten thousand years of the creek
Switching its tail back and forth;
And at least twenty head of cattle
Grazing the last hundred.
Beyond
The pasture they had railed off
A branch of the creek for thistles
And jimsonweed. We walked there,
The scythe in my hands now, since
Those who taught him had carried one
When looking for ginseng: something
To have with you at the first place
You come to, so that you may nod,
And pass by; something to lean on
When you find the right cluster
And stand looking down at it-
Wondering how many dry-weight ounces
Of root it would yield, how long
It has been growing there, who else
Had harvested it since the Nanticoke
Passed through here gathering things
Before there were roads.
Even now,
He explained, men dig it up, ruin
Whole stands, steal it from farmers.
But all of them together-hunters,
Thieves, those who keep the old ways-
Pass it from hand to hand along
A chain of those who know exactly
Where it is going, what it is worth-
Until eventually it arrives
On the other side of the world,
Where it is ground into dust
And mixed into potions they say
Can make an old man young again.
Going back, he would let me carry
The scythe, to leave it hidden
Once more in the weeds by the gate.
She would be up and waiting for us
By the well, and I would pump
While they splashed water on their faces.
When she awoke with the Book in her lap,
She said, and looked at the two of us
Coming across the ridge in the heat,
We seemed to shimmer, to step toward her
Like two unexpected messengers
Come from an old story. For a second
She could even make out the cord
That bound us together–now long,
Like an arm stretched between us,
Now like a vein of lightning opening.
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