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The Private Miner Speaks at Last Stephen Gardner
On this long Thursday he fills his bin With pile on pile of coal, fat-lighter, Summer-dried oak and pine. "These hills," He says, "these hills provide the fuel For all my fires." And he takes his pick, Axe, and shovel, stalking the deepening path Across the hogback, down to the valley Where he has overturned the lode That burns each time, for him, at night: And, still, this night he unrolls his bag Before the fire, atop the dust-brown Bearskin that shows a stitch-line Hiding his knife's signature. Glass-eyed, It stares like he does. He hears The snow drift against his door, filling in The v's of his roof-joints. He rolls Himself into the bag. He blows the lamp To dark. "Amen," he breathes; "such winters Come too scarce for random lifetimes, And stay too long to turn us warm again." |
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