CARPENTER AMID WOODSHAVINGS

The carpenter’s face as he chisels amid woodshavings,

the blacksmith stooped behind wheatstalks and scythes.

At her unsteady treadle, the white-haired woman

weaves slender waistlines, scarlet blooms.

A single country poplar

just a rising thread of cooksmoke

homecoming sheep see far off.

I write simple lines, beside

perfectly straight acres, this row of wheat shoots

tugging my whole body green, a jolt

of voltage, no wires.