I made the small deck from rough-sawed lumber I
sourced from the mill in town; I made the tabletop from a disc I cut from the
base of a large oak; I made the chair, though no more than a melon crate with a
back nailed to it, but I made it! Hell, I even churned the honey-butter that I
spread on a beautiful, grainy breakfast bread I purchased from a farm's roadside
stand a few miles up the road.
It's these uncomplicated bits of tangibility that I appreciate at the moment,
along, indeed, with the manufactured: the knife on the edge of the plate, the collected
works of Emerson next to it, and the blue tin coffee cup in my hands with its
warm South American contents. Many live at-want for a simple meal.
...Ah, time-consuming introspection and reverie.
When, today, there is a pile of field waste to burn, a baler to repair, a few
rows of potatoes to get tucked in, and a pump in the pump house to convince to
start pumping again!
An old, half-blind cat glides his orange body against the leg of my blue jeans.
He neither doubts nor protests, just chooses to tarry and accept the morning's
humid sun through his closed eyelids.
Had I become a banker like her father, things would've been different. Had I
bought a boat instead of a tractor, I'd still know the taste of her lips. Had I
sacrificed the depths of who I am, she
never would've left me for the clean-cut boy back home.
Well, this ole' crate is comfortable, so why not have just one more cup of coffee; then,
I'll start on that stubborn ole' pump!
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