A Row of Stones

In those December storms that start as rain
But end as snow, I try to count the flakes
As they begin to fall. But it’s in vain.
I lack the dedication that it takes
To be a census taker of the snow.
I’ll be distracted, as the tumult breaks
Across the field, by a long gray narrow row
Of stones, a wall within a stand of birch:
A thousand stones at least, pried, grasped below,
Pulled up and piled. In this hard springtime work,
The greatest effort spent to make the wall
Was lifting each the first inch off the earth.
I know when things get high enough they fall;
I’m struck in wonder that they’re raised at all.

Copyright © 2005 Robert W. Crawford All rights reserved
from Too Much Explanation Can Ruin a Man
David Robert Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission