Before generic
we toiled
with well made heavy tools
to survive
thinking less, I suspect
of the quality of that living
whether we were ‘happy’
nor having time for slight or scold
to injure us
sheer brevity of our toil
overwhelming higher thought
which at times I believe
may be as fitful and ill-fitting
as apple eaten from forbidden tree
it is that knowledge of ourselves
sends us into quiet turmoil
perpetuated by hours to muse
on the fix and drip of life
we taste despair in our abundant imaginings
for all we learn, we grow further
from that seat of quiet peace found
in hard labor and less thought
for every Sunday where I get to lie in
watching snow fall outside my safe insulated house
I wonder at the wisdom of this progress
whether
like the man I know who
lives in the woods
gathering water by stream
keeping warm at fireplace
his rough shod life is
that much gladder
than mine, able to turn
thoughts around in my head
like blue flies
urging to be loosed