Glosa #1

The new root of the fern is the part you eat in famine.
Harsh words are spoken, but they’re not the ones that make you turn.
Where the muscle’s smooth. That’s where it doesn’t fray.
The hard part is what comes easy. The hard part isn’t hard.
From The Hard Part by Clare Jones

Our hungers, so relative in wartime, in winter
in civilization in decline. Those of us with
shovels excavate and wait.
And still most tools, our rough hands
smoothing ground, shoulder touch
say “I’m sorry”, “there there”, “here”.
We search our littered landscapes
signs of life still break our hearts.
Beating time. Sometimes it‘s all there is.
The new root of the fern is the part you eat in famine.

Our father had sudden rages that shook our house.
He cried at weddings, held babies, wept,
he planted seeds of feeling and glorious gardens,
taught equations on table tops
padded through the house during storms,
pulled windows shut against thunder, rain.
Sentry of safety when the outside crept in
we still remember him at the window, pulling
the shade, tiptoeing down a hall backlit by lightning
Harsh words are spoken, but they’re not the ones that make you turn

This springtime is an ache of solid ground.
It shakes our bones, rattles weakness. All the doctors
tell us get strong, but every program tears
something. We switch sides, left then right-
broom, rake, groceries, stoop gingerly
use our legs, rise in uncertainty.  Our five pound barbells,
nudge us with gentleness and rigor, until we
note amazement when kinks release and ligaments
stretch long the history of a body’s survival.
Where the muscle’s smooth. That’s where it doesn’t fray.

All this is to say something that eludes us
beyond words, in the impossible, invisible
effort of living no one sees, which brings to mind
the violence of waiting. The peace of it.
All the ways of easing into questions
devoid of friendly answers. Pictures
flash across our TV screens: weary faces
in train windows, busted buildings, one more
haunted tear-streaked child, many hands reach for food.
The hard part is what comes easy. The hard part isn’t hard.