"Phoenicia, SC"

In my neighborhood
I hear sounds of
Industrious chainsaws


On an afternoon of
Golden light
With an atmosphere
More water than
Air

Workmen carry cleared brush
Upon their sweating backs
Looking as if some green
Legend come to life

I have been a spiritual companion
To their work
Their exertions
Cut…rake…lift
Falling into that Zen state
Of non-existence


In heat and rhythm
Where they loose
Themselves
To this waking world


Traveling mental corridors
While
Sub-conscious portals gape
To ancient shores where Phoenician
Traders sail


Digging deep into reserves of
Muscle and sinew
Freeing bronze age anchors
They are echoes of an echo
Of past effort

Knowing at some mental level
When aquamarine waters part
With the last load of brush loaded
They will be
Free from labor

Having lost themselves
In salt flavored breathing
Finishing their double exposed tasks

Only to have traveled
Back where they started
In a sweat stained
Suburban yard

With little more than
Sunburned necks
To mark their travels
With fence line free
From green growth

As Cedar dappled shores of Sidon
Mix with sunset colored shadows
Of a Live Oak by the
Back gate

-Fin-

DS Baker