The Red House (from a sequence) Poem by Gregory Orr

Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grey up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear…
- -WORDSWORTH, The Prelude, Book I
Morning Song
Sun on his face wakes him.
The boy makes his way down
through the spidery dark
of stairs to his breakfast
of cereal in a blue bowl.
He carries to the barn
a pie plate heaped
with vegetable scraps
for the three-legged deer.
As a fawn it stood still
and alone in the high hay
while the red tractor
spiraled steadily inward,
mowing its precise swaths.
"I lived" is the song

the boy hears as the deer
hobbles toward him.
In the barn's huge gloom
light falls through cracks
the way swordblades
pierce a magician's box.
Work Gloves
All morning with gloved
hands, we grip and tug
burdock and the tough
fibrous stalks of chicory.
We knock roots against
bootsoles to jar
the clumped earth loose.
When the brushpile's
tangled mound is high enough
we set it ablaze and stand
squinting into the heat,
waiting for the branch
that always rises whole
and flaming, ready
to sprint to where it settles
and put out its sparks
with quick, flat
slaps of our bamboo rakes.
At dusk, easing down
on porch steps to unlace
my boots, I pause:
smoke, sweat, dirt and flesh
make this smell I love:
I hold my face in my hands
and breathe deeply.