4 – sawdust

I LOOK down at my hands, and then around the room. 
 The paper in these books, the shelves -- 
 How many different sets of hands were part of this? 
 How many people working, struggling, grieving, 
 Laughing, aching, who I'll never know about? 
 From o'er the seas and across the country, 
 From years gone by, those with years to years to come -- 
 The trail of sawdust, back to soil, 
 Back to our shared humanity, 
 Back to the life within it all. 
 
We simplify, where no such thing is needed. 
 All of us split into genus and species, 
 Each of us put in a box, or a byte, 
 So that we can understand what we do not know, 
 And know what we've never bothered to understand. 
 Connectedness is more fundamental than "society", 
 Which, more often than not, is a word we give 
 To local customs. 

I look around this room, my part of the ant-hill, 
 It has the shape of me, the scent of me, 
 But it's made by all of you: 
 The you's I know, and the you's I can never know.

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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

One thought on “4 – sawdust”

  1. I think that the stability, yet inherent fragility, of life, is mirrored in the woodpiles. I am, perhaps, being rather fanciful!! Happy New Year to you and yours Owen.

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