The History of Art

dirt grass

The eight pound sledge
held high
It feels good going up, somehow,
in spite of the effort.
Going down threatens
loss of control.

The strike cannot be undone.

Satisfaction is more from the process than the product
yet no one values the process.
No one says, Here,
this seems to be what you should be doing,
keep doing it.

Lifted again, the momentary hover
at the crest of its wave,
can take a bit of weight off feet.

Down again, the shudder comes through,
impact is universal
everything takes it in.

Pausing to glance at the sky,
the ground is a distant memory.
People used to live in small groups
that roamed around looking for things.

Eventually
the fragments far surpass the whole.

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