James

Garber

Sestina/Destinations
for David Wasser
The poet owns the name of cold, clear water
And digs mindfully into the dark, swollen earth
Planting in precise, intentional rows.
His arms tan through that arduous work
And fortified by his hope, his will
To find the long, lost answers.
He shouts down a country road but no one answers,
Stops to give his dog a drink of water
And ponders the incongruity of life and will,
Looks to the rich, roundness of the earth
For clues to his daily work;
Finds a boat, enters the lake and rows.
The oars pull currents into liquid rows
That reflect in the sky for seldom, solemn answers
To find the significance of art and work
Thirsty in the stark canyons for an ounce of water
Or to seep into the parched earth
Failing all (or most) and wanting no will.
He sits at his desk and writes out his will
Setting out a chart of items into categories and rows.
1

James Garber

He looks through a window at a pile of earth

Left at midpoint in his gardening, without answers
To his suburban lawn asking for water
And wonders when he could finish that work.
His poems call to him, but it seems like too much work
He forces himself to accede to his own will
Toiling too densely his eyes filled with water
Unfocused, his words seem only to be dark rows,
With no hints to the answers
Envisioned images as seen from space of Earth.
He steps outside and his boots sink into the moist earth
And for a few moments forgets about all work
And any need for answers
At his desk, he slips away from his will
Relaxing into a thought of a fragrant rose
And of patterns furrowing into the deep water.
I am told that water forms the larger part of the earth
Though the rows of crops seem to make up much of the peoples work
Through their will they will uncover the answers.