The migrant farm, all grey with weathered wood.
poverty shuttled, awkward and away,
keeping distance between me and the other
The housing is hidden, migrants unseen.
Their clothes are thin and worn, dirty and torn
They pick in the heat, the rain and the mud.How sheltered we are, how pretty our hands.
All calloused, and bruised, and burnt are theirs.
They pick the melons, and apples and peas.They kill the chickens, the beef and the hogs
doing the jobs that repel us the most,
Then move along in broken down wagons.
Our conscience untapped, and our plates so full.
All posts by Mary Herbert
My Shadow
We all set off
from very young
walking toward
the setting sun.I’m shadow led
but, the path is fair
and I gladly follow…
till
Round…
and round
in the mid-day glare
my shadow’s gone.It’s there… fallen at my feet,
with my thirst full
in the mid-day heat that
I must decide:
To allow my shade
to lead me back
Or from this moment on to
proceed from here
and drag my shadow along
and move
…towards the cicada song
and the setting sun
…to drag this coat along
as it lengthens in the dying dusk.My shadow can no longer lead me
it is a different light
that leads me now
As I move, on arthritic feet
toward that place
of the evening dew
A Welcome Prayer
A welcome prayer,
I’ve never heard.
How do you welcome
a mystery?
Something
all muddled
and hidden?Why open the door
at the ground floor?
If it rains, it will flood
and someone may come
and find it unclosed.
SomeOne may come
and find me exposedWhy do we start here,
at this new prayer?
To help me heal,
to see and to feel?
To let go
To let go
To let go
of what I hold so near.
I’d rather start by a different track.The why seems unimportant
It is the sinking I find hard,
but I open a crack…
and find the flood.
I knew it had rained.
So there’s no going back.
So unbolt,
uncover,
unfold,
breathe,
stretch,
reach.
SomeOne will come.
SomeOne is here.
Forgiveness
Step over it.
Step across.
Find a rock,
a bridge,
a log
on which to balance,
but step over
untouched.Traverse the fault
without a fall,
without sinking low.
Find the bridge,
find the rope.But, step over it.
Step over yourself,
don’t fall.
Step over
the fault.
We are invited to dance across the river that would sweep us away when we are rejected, disrespected or hurt. We are invited to forgive and find stones on which to stand as we traverse the fault.
Old Homestead
The old home sinks slowly
into the ancient Dakota soil.
Year after year it lowers itself,
year after year it shifts downward,
till it looks like a face with clear eyes
holding an inner wisdom
unknown to those who observe the descent.Year after year
the house sinks slowly,
while the rocks and stones
ascend as though overdue,
these unmoving, solid
stationary minerals
rising to declare their presence.
Open Ears 