Wendell Berry’s poetry is never very far from my consciousness. This poem resonates now as I contemplate a change in story. My story now, as I edge day-by-day toward “retirement,” is a litany of this, “Well, that’s the last time I assign that or mark that or do that or share that.” In Berry’s poetic mind, I am just coming to the real work, the real journey, the real bafflement, the real song. It certainly feels that way.
I created these two digital artifacts so that I could come to terms with Berry’s assertion. And it is only that–an assertion. He could be maximum wrong, himself baffled and baffling, embattled and battling. Not to worry. This is poet’s logic and filled with the hedgewitch magic of metaphor. I believe. As a grown up man I can’t complain. I can only accept the unassailable rightness of it. Work is my lot and ever more work shall feed me and mine. Now the real work is to become a good ancestor.