We bring ourselves out at dawn. We have work.
Why did none of us think of this before . . .
The birds are making their curlicues with butterflies
between their restless, insatiable wings.
We are here to do what needs to be done.
Sun rises: augur and pick bore and chip
and open a hole in the earth we hope leads us
where we need to go. When the fires of noon
have climbed and pause above us, we take rest.
Soon the work will be rekindled. We do not know
who we are. Maybe we will find identity
at the bottom, once we have reached the site,
even if we die getting there. Or we may open the door,
more alive than before and nothing left to do, as now.
(30-31 July 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander