The French
peasant monk
shows me
how to cut
the tall grass;
he holds a scythe
like a warrior
his broad sword;
and I watch,
uncertain.
Spit on your palms,
he says in French,
gazing at me
with his deep set eyes.
I spit on my palms,
and taking my scythe,
I follow him
to one side,
avoiding his blade
as he scythes down
the tall grass.
Unable to match
his swift movement,
his casual attention,
as if it was all part
of his prayer,
and I, scything,
sweating,
giving him,
a wondering stare.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
The French
peasant monk
shows me
how to cut
the tall grass;
he holds a scythe
like a warrior
his broad sword;
and I watch,
uncertain.
Spit on your palms,
he says in French,
gazing at me
with his deep set eyes.
I spit on my palms,
and taking my scythe,
I follow him
to one side,
avoiding his blade
as he scythes down
the tall grass.
Unable to match
his swift movement,
his casual attention,
as if it was all part
of his prayer,
and I, scything,
sweating,
giving him,
a wondering stare.
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