Carry Wood, Chop Water

Ace of Wands

The Rood and the Road

That thick club
You ease against the earth—
One touch of damp
And it comes alive!
The peasants gasp and scatter,
Spreading rumors of miracles.

And our eyes meet again,
Like every time, in every town
We’ve done this trick.
We work as one. We’re good,
Aren’t we? And then we run,
Fleeing the bishops and burghers.

Contrary to all caution,
The older, the easier.
Between bouts, I’ve wondered,
On long winter travels, why
We keep it up, keep going around,
Keep coming back. For us, now,
The miracle is not in the wood,
Nor in the sprout, and not
In the bread and coins tossed our way,
But in that look, just after,
The dizzying venture into the other’s eyes,
A world ever new.

AWwwwwww writin poetry at work, I'm tellin.