Fish Tea Rice

Fish Tea Rice

It is on the Earth
that all things transpire,
and only on the Earth.
On it, up out of it,
down into it.
Wading and stepping, pulling
and lifting.
The heft in the seasons.
Knowledge in the bare ankle
under water
amid the rows of rice seedlings.
The dialogue of the silent
back and forth, the people moving
together in flat fields of water
with the patina of the sky upon it,
the green shoots rising up
from the mud, sticking up seamlessly
above the water.
The water buffalo stepping through
as they work, carrying the weight
of their bodies along the rows.
The wrists of the people
wet under the water,
planting or pulling up.
It is this Earth that all meaning is.
If love unfolds, it unfolds here.
Here where Heaven shows its face.
Christ's agony flowers into grace,
spikes through the hands
holding the body in place,
arms reaching wide.
It breaks our heart on Earth.
Ignorance mixed with longing,
intelligence mixed with hunger.
The genius of night and sleep,
being awake and at work.
The sacred in the planting,
the wading in mud.
Eating what is here.
Fish, bread, tea, rice.

Linda Gregg

Posted over on The Poetry Center