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 anchor
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

Marking 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

DS Baker