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Scythe<br />
JAMES OWENS<br />
My father fought incursions of pigweed, bindweed,<br />
and purple loosestrife. As the blades of lesser tools<br />
thinned and snapped from use, he repaired hoes<br />
and hatchets and spades and released them to any hand,<br />
but the scythe was his alone, a man’s deadly implement<br />
that, swung stupidly, would open a leg to the wet bone.<br />
It glowered from its pegs on the shed wall,<br />
shaft crooked to ease the work, cracked from weather,<br />
handles polished as pleasurable as skin with the oils<br />
of labor. The dark crescent of steel glinted<br />
along its edge in the dimness, attractive but forbidden<br />
for boys prone to stumble in their ignorant gravity.<br />
I remember plain work done as it should be done,<br />
the hand’s or eye’s love for the angle tapped true,<br />
the clean hole dug square, the measured cut.<br />
He sat cross-legged at the base of a slope too steep<br />
and rock-bound for machines and plied a file in curt<br />
strokes that raised a new sharpness on the blade.<br />
Then up, leaning into his own spun center, a wide-elbowed,<br />
flow-hipped rhythm that snicked stems an inch<br />
above the soil, the scythe seemingly as without effort<br />
as light bending through water, he laid thistles and briers<br />
in long swathes, to be raked in mounds and to dry<br />
for the sweet smoke of fires that marked the cleared ground.<br />
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