A flinty landscape for an austere man.
He scrapes away at the flinty earth,
And thinks scrape isn’t the right word.
It’s too rough for the work he does.
Nothing grows here except knowledge,
Drenched in sweat from heat, not hard labor.
The irony of brittle rock, hard but fragile,
Is not lost on the archaeologist, who is the same.
A blur of thoughts on this changing place,
This square foot of rock and fossil.
His rough tongue scares the volunteers,
Yet his burnished reputation keeps them coming.
He chalks it up to thirst for knowledge,
And the wonder of barnacles in the desert.
Geologic time, not human time, so limited
By our short lifespans and paltry imaginations.
Meaning in work, discovery, and quiet,
This season of digging, this cocoon
That will open back at the university,
Yet it’s here that he is the butterfly.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to Wordle 58 at The Sunday Whirl.
My work primarily ended for another school year on Friday, May 25, when I promoted another class of students to middle school. I have been so busy with grading, report cards, and various activities around the promotion ceremony itself, not to mention my son’s eighth birthday last weekend, that I haven’t written/posted a poem since the 16th, which seems to me a long dry spell after the busyplayfulness of April.
I have drafted a poem to last week’s wordle as well, which I plan on posting tomorrow. If you get a chance, please come back and read it.
Thank you to everyone who visits my blog. I do appreciate it.