The creek opens its bed
     To sunlight and wild grass
     As the summer drought reduces
     Half its width
     To a damp brown stand of rock and mud.
The creek is parched as West Virginia:
     Empty mines
     Whose sulfur water sometimes
     Dyes the flowing water orange.
The night promises stars,
     And the final quarter of a summer moon:
     Scant relief for a harvest missed,
          A harvest festival celebrated
          With empty factories,
               Unemployment lines,
          And pickets at the factory gates.
A promised thunderstorm
     Shows no more will to happen
     Than the promised reopening of the mines,
     Or the promise made by Johnson,
          Since forgotten,
     To give us all the dignity of work.
"As ye sow ..."
     Who have no land to sow on
     Except a hill too steep to plow.
"As ye sow ..."
     Whose hands know mines and factories,
     Whose yellowed land will barely
          Grow a crop of weeds.
"As ye sow ..."
     Whose back was crushed,
     Whose fingers broken,
     Whose leg was lost
     In the thunder of the machine,
          Slave-driving hunk of metal
          Which pounds through mine and factory,
          Swallowing men and spewing out
          The grime and fumes of the city.
"As ye sow ..."
     From the front porch
     Of the house
     Overlooking the yellow stream
     Whose half-dry bed sprouts weeds.
The odor of sulfur mingles
     With the smell of algae
     In the half-deep stagnant pool
     Where the last living catfish hide,
     Impervious to hook and worm,
     Living slowly, without desire.
The star-filled sky shines down,
     Promising continued drought.
     Mars flashes near the horizon.
     The moon has not yet risen.
     The harvest is uncelebrated,
          Forgotten, ancient
                             Holiday.

8/2/83

Appeared in the San Fernando Poetry Journal, vol. 5, no. 4, 1983.

Index    Resignation