Born To See
how do you do it
to see what you see?
And I say,
my heart pools in my eyes
and I weep with the poignancy of love.
I see the generations who have worked
the fields and the August sweat that poured
off brows to be wiped by the long sleeves
on blue shirts. . long sleeves helped keep
the shards of thistles from piercing the skin.
And you say. . . . .
why work the sweat jobs that others can do
when you have money in the bank?
And I say. . . .
money in the bank is for the lean, cold months
when the fields do not produce.
You say. . . . .
I would find something else to do.
I say. . . . . . .
when you love the land and the peoples
who worked it before you, it is a requisite
to have that love primary.
Otherwise, you work for no thing, nothing.
Arguing, you say. . .
that old wreck of a plough needs replacing.
You need equipment and you need money.
What do you see?
I see. . . .
how wealthy I am.
The old plough sits with acres behind it;
I see bushes with thrushes, ponds with live waterfowl,
I see huge windrows of bundled hay,
and I think that feeding the peoples
is a good way to pay my way on this Earth.
You say. . . .
so you see what went before to form the picture now.
I say. . . . .
my heart sees the love that went into
the building of this dream.
And the dream puts food on the table
for the children in the final picture.
And you say. . . .
I cannot see it that way at all.
Then I conclude. . . .
perhaps we need to be born with eyes that see;
and we see what our hearts deem to be ours to see.
Perhaps you need to talk to the Potter.
photo by Kathy Qualiana