Museum of Hand Tools
Nine hours after we start, Strings
bellows, Tool count. Everyone halts
in mid-swing & lays tools upon trail
as if at a museum of hand tools.
We count & re-count –
2 high-reach saws
3 handsaws
2 loppers
4 Pulaskis
2 pick-adzes
3 hazel hoes
2 hog hoes
1 rock bar
2 McLeods
1 crosscut saw
2 handles
– incanting names, ensuring
we’ve abandoned none in brush,
for these tools are nothing without
us, & we are even less without them.
Entropy
After five months returning to primitive,
we remember that there is no
truth except all things move
from balance to imbalance.
One day (today) we realize that this morning walk
is our last, eight more hours of throwing
soil, a final tool count, later, a final bastard
file worn across a Pulaski’s cheek;
let the edge grow dull tomorrow.
A long list of lasts & finals until we sling
no more dirt, until we birth no more
trail, until we – known for so long only as
family – become you & you & you
& me.
From Crosscut: Poems by Sean Prentiss. Copyright © 2020 Sean Prentiss, 2020.
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Web Extras: Interview with Poet & Environmental Writer Sean Prentiss