---

George Lewis Avery

---

Here leans a poet,
his cotton shirt is drenched in sweat
and a solitary bead of perspiration
evaporates on his forehead. his sleeves
are rolled back upon chiseled arms
that complement two oversized
and calloused hands.
his left hand, clutching the handle
of the hoe that supports his weight.
his right, clutching a fistful of weeds.

he awakens each morning.
he showers. he brushes his teeth
eats his eggs, grits, and bacon,
drinks two glasses of milk,
and leaves the morning paper untouched.
he spends all day in the field
weeding his crops.
not because labor enriches him
but because it preoccupies his time.
and then, at night he dreams.

it is night.

and, truth be known
there lies a rock
half buried out in his corn field.
it has broken numerous plow points.
tripped him more times than he can count.
you would think he'd address it.
he knows where it can be found.
but finding it is not the problem.
uncovering it is the rut.
and even then
it must be chiseled away at.
and yet this rock is formidable in its stubbornness.
for this rock cannot be budged.
this rock does not corrode.
no known force in nature can deminish it.

`bar one`

and that elemental is the coarse beak of a tiny bird
who, once each year, flies north
from it's perch on the farthest reaches of the pole
to alight on this one stone
and, there, sharpen its beak.
and in this manner alone
can the stone be eroded

this he knows,
so life has become a waiting game
and, if the truth be known,
perhaps in a billion years or so
this tiny bird will have outlived us all.

.oeg ©

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