We land at the Challenge's end, a
small miracle. We have each become a student
of daily habit, presented
for the first time or again with this writing place, theirs or ours, hers or his,
welcomed to the fold of a just so, chef-turned omelet.
It amazes us still how the
writing ritual itself becomes our instructor.
At a keyboard, we poked
surrendered (or revealed) a slice. And
perhaps once, an idea shook
us so suddenly -- as a hitter who meets his
to a ball that he
size up, the abrupt taste
coming only from the unseeing instinct of it.
I sometimes know how he
over with the swing's effort, putting his all into it,
blind hope that the result will be more than trash;
the payoff of essential optimism, not unlike an
unexpectedly delicious filling cached in an omelet.
Our simple writerly wants
might in fact distill to
a wish to be
when standing in
of earthly bustle, pillowy
any and every experience, the
unthinkable alternative being to lose touch.
Source text for this golden shovel poem: Dirt by Bill Buford, page 130