there will be no tools. if we choose not to lose sight in the horizontal slant of this morning light, with clay rubbed roughly into calloused palms. into some small dreams. we can be workers, up to our ankles in the muck of each day. we can be birds, with neither hands, nor teeth, but with our body press smooth, small bits of found nothing, of two daily lives, into a hollow house from our form. our body performs small miracles, or one, with bits of compressed time, and a persistent pressing of need, and a healthy silence. we work at it, like an ox laboring, pulling a heavy cart. we do what has to be done, over and over and over in some flying rhythm. it’s as common as mud and groupings of twigs. the nest cries for the return of the breast. here we are. let your soft chestnut eyes open. if we have lived in a wood, it is a wood. we have lived in a hollow. it is roundness touching our body forever. it is by the pine needle, the downy accident, the turned-red broadleaf, yesterday’s newspaper.
Jeffrey Hartnett is a retired professor of architecture from the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. After earning degrees from the University of Virginia and the University of Texas at Austin, he taught at various universities, from coast-to-coast, including for two years in China. He lives in Portland Oregon. jeffhartnett.weebly.com
