Tim Menees' poem

First Frost 

We may have had a frost last night.
First of the season.
But I can’t be sure.
Before daybreak I was at work,
focused on my computer
until the sun had climbed high,
compromising the evidence.
Perhaps a specific sort of sparkle in the dew
or a nuance in the breeze sparked suspicion.
These things are flickers of memory
from a time and place lost to me.
A time of watching moon and sky
to know when to plant and harvest.
A time of holding earth in our hands
and knowing we belonged.
Now my hands are soft
and I know something is lost, but
only by the hollow left in it’s absence.
I could ask my son about the frost.
He works outside, with his hands,
building houses straight, square, strong,
the sun and weather his time clock,
integrity his boss.
But too often these days
a man’s worth is measured by accountants.
Greed and cheap labor move openly across the land,
undaunted by quality and experience,
advancing like wolves no longer in fear of fire.
Not long ago I suggested a job with
steady pay, regular hours, a good pension.
He got up and walked to the edge of the porc,
stared into the distance watching
serpent tongues of lightning test the horizon.
Maybe he knows what I’ve lost
but can’t find the words.
Maybe I just sat there staring at the floor
afraid of seeing the bars of my cage.

Tim Menees, December 2004

a lurker comes into the light (apparently)
"This poem is just one example of why I read postings on your website.  
This poem spoke to me, although I am a woman.  It speaks a solid truth about the world now. 
 We are measured by what we do, who we know, whether or not we "come from money"
 or move in the right circles.  I quoted my favorite lines below but the entire poem is excellent.  
My congratulations to the poet. 
and I know something is lost, but 
only by the hollow left in it's absence. 
But too often these days 
a man's worth is measured by accountants. 
advancing like wolves no longer in fear of fire.
MOIRA

I totally agree with Moira, the Lurker, re: the poem by Tim Menees. 

  He states with a profound poignancy the life most of us are forced to live these 
  days.

  My mother always told me I was born a hundred years too late. I understand now 
  what she meant, 

  and Tim Menees' poem paraphrased her concerns very well. 

  

  Laurel