ORDINARY MEN

The rains came last night washing dust from a road, from

my car. Measured fields plowed under for food bring dust

to roads, powder blown on cars that have always been.

Between storms, farms and rows of dirt are still,

quieted before being machined each Autumn and

Spring. First is a harvest, then new plantings: 

for ordinary men—like water from clouds

that go underground, to wells under soils

like many shades of unveiled skin.

In the storm season after planting, first leaves are blown

against windows, under glass an ordinary man sees outside,

or others see in a house, as eyes perceive a soul of another.

When foliage is young the wind does not tear away

what flowers first—from within; what is always green.

This is the harvest I see in children:

a child before storms or winds; or rains wrenching pedals

that become bruised, torn or decayed like innocent roses,

in wild pastures seeded with dreams after first waking.

This is morning for ordinary men, before the sun’s heavy breath

strikes the baffled air. Any day is long for ordinary men, those

who harvest land for trees--before once more, planting dreams.

The harvest is always first for unimaginative men.

In days going, between dark and light clouds, the sun

gives heat through the outermost heavens.

Storms have cooled, balanced what is green to what

becomes brown or decayed; what is given to what is taken—

what is harvested or planted for another day to ordinary men.