Swept Ground
>Let me say, that love is an act beond the will.
So, four undefined terms can be proposed
as the borders of the heart: love, act, will,
and the mystery of speech. The curtain's up.
Displayed: a shack or hut, rather small, set
askew to the fourth wall, with porch and door,
and a single window open on the inner
scene. Before the hut, a barren ground
defiled with toys and trash and hunks of bone,
All is lit in the general light of resignation.
A broom leans against a painted drop,
stage left, in fact, leans on a fervid cloud,
gone red with the cold rising of the sun.
A magical transformation typical
of the stage, occurs: the ground is swept,
the trash stored in the wings, the shack or hut
has a refurbished air, the door is open,
the broom stands propped against the frame
of the ambivalent window, and then...
Here I feel compelled to turn to the grace
of words to suggest the careless wonder
of discovery, for revealed in this cleansing
of the scene, a single low stone,
part embedded in the ground, unveils its
brooding presence, egg to the rest.
And the heavy freight of distance,
far hovering sky, the rising curve
of a pastureland sweeping onward to a fringe
of weaving trees, lies there beyond the stone,
nurturing the clarity of the swept ground.
* * *
Now let order burgeon, as I am witness
of the world. The handsome small house, swept yard
all lying full in the latter light of day,
show a fringe of curtain to the slow breeze.
And a man stands by the stone,
broom in hand, his back toward this eye.
He sweeps the ground around a speckled stone,
and finds there patterns, swirls and lines,
like rows of winter grass laid toward the sky.
He lifts his head, shakes his heavy hair,
turns his face toward the busy house.
Come out, he calls, and sweeping, waits. The words,
like the dust from gem stones cut by diamonds,
brilliant midges of glitter on the air.
© 2010 Andrew Dufresne
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