Thursday, June 29, 2006

Hay for the Horses
by Gary Snyder

He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the
sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
"I'm sixty-eight" he said,
"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that's just what
I've gone and done."


Frida said...

I love it. Fate has a way of twisting us around it's little finger.

samuru999 said...

I really liked this one.

Pat Paulk said...

Done it! Hard living well written!!

Anonymous said...

thanks samuru.

thanks frida.

thanks pat.

gary synder is one of my favorites.


Poetry by Kai said...


kathy said...

yes very nice. i think it doesn't matter really what job we do...because its not who we are anyway.

Anonymous said...

thanks kathy and yes I agree


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