DITCH (POEM)

                              Ditch
                                 
We need a ditch for two pipelines:
3/4" electrical conduit
to carry power
down to the pump in the well;
1 1/4" polyvinyl chloride pipe
to suck water from the aquifer
     250 feet down
and push that water
up the hill
to the house.

I sweat and wonder:

if light were in that aquifer
and if my eyes were there,
what great mute movings
of mineral and water
would I see?

If once I saw that deep place,
I'd see it in my dreams forever,
see it every time
water gurgles up the pipe
I will lay in this ditch,
see it every time
water makes its aural glitter from the tap,
singing water music in our kitchen sink.

Ten feet from the old well,
left at forty five degrees
so the ditch will fit the pipe fittings
then fifty feet more
to the new well.

The D handle clam shovel
works for a while
in the clayey mud,
but won't cut the shallow asphalt
of the old driveway.

Get the pick.

Beeswax the handle's lower inches
till it's a sticky grip
that doesn't cramp the left hand;
leave slick the hard, smooth,
weathered hickory of the upper handle
so the right hand can slide,
like Rosendo Alvarez taught me
fifteen years ago.
Right hand, you push out and down in
a long arc, then begin
a quick pull to the waist
as the pick comes level.

Left hand, you stay a steady pivot
till we're horizontal, then
all systems accelerate
in the direction of the earth:

Knees -  you bend.
Butt - you drop.
Left shoulder, pull
as left elbow rotates
     down and back.

Then, just before impact,
left hand, you
whip the pick.

Ahh.

The stiffly gooey crunch
of the pick's wide blade
through mineralized cottage cheese
of cold asphalt and decomposed granite gravel

satisfies.


Noon.

Stiff-kneed downhill jog
with tail-spiraling spaniel
to the mailbox.

Another rejection slip.

Back in the ditch,
whip the pick!

"Interesting," the editor said,
"but not our style."

My anger bites the asphalt:
a good sharp tool.

The driveway's cut now.

Clean the clods
and deepen the ditch.

The pick's still the best tool:
when I dangle the handle, the wide blade slides
along the trench bottom,
scooping out clods
and loose earth.

There.

Sixty feet of clean trench
     in half a day,
just the right depth,
straight as the pipe
that will lie in it.

Next time,
put this skill
in the poem.

Then the poem
and the ditch  
will carry power    
down to the well  
and water    
up the hill
to the house.                        

                                                                                          (c) 2012 Dean Metcalf