Field hands

Wood block, English print paper, relief ink


2 thoughts on “Field hands”

  1. In honor of your beautiful image of harvest (and because my collage response is not so encouraging), here is a poem, more hopeful:

    leisure wear (or, Wendell Berry Breaks In All My Pants)


    It’s someone else’s job to break
    in all my pants —
    some farmer or fashion model,
    who’s hard at work someplace,
    living the active life I guess
    I don’t have time for, anymore–I get
    soft slacks, sensitively sewn, to cover
    the shame of my naked, useless legs,
    and fulfill the promise of a technological age,
    while projecting an air
    of good times and hard wear.

    I dreamed it could be Wendell Berry,
    whom I’m certain never buys
    stone-washed, must despise
    the option of pre-softened jeans,
    and works the rows in brand new
    clothes, chafing to preserve
    something of the old ways,
    for the children, of the earth
    and honest work, in these last days.


    Out here, under old-denim skies,
    in the worn-khaki fields of mankind’s
    primal dream, here, hand-shined
    iron still sharpens iron,
    and cotton … only turns its will
    to time, for Adam to remind:
    that when dearth has no part of fear
    then leisure is no kind of wear.

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