A Poem I wrote for Saturn:)

Saturn

Slicing at the crop with a sickle-shaped blade,
he wears a plain woven robe, cinched with rope
to keep it clear of his work.
His beard is long and grey, and though he spends the day bent,
when he stands upright his spine stacks
one vertebra atop another
like a man much younger than his years.

If you go to visit,
you are likely to find him in the field.
If you don’t know who he is, you might ask,
Do you know where Saturn lives?
Unspeaking, unsmiling,
he points to a house down the road.

You drive away thinking,
What a dick.
How hard is it to speak when spoken to?
An early lesson we teach our children about manners.

A nice lady answers the door
and tells you the old man you met is Saturn,
and she’s sorry, but he doesn’t stop working for anyone.
Seeing your irritation, she invites you in
for tea and a biscuit -
you’ve come all this way
and shouldn’t leave empty-handed.

If you set your disappointment aside and sit with her,
you’ll find the conversation stimulating,
the homemade jam most delicious.
The sun sets. Saturn returns.
He isn’t surprised to find you there with his wife,
but he isn’t friendly about it either -
just accepting, as if to say,
Oh. Another one.

When he disappears upstairs
she invites you to stay for dinner,
folding unironed cloth napkins,
setting the table for three.
She doesn’t refuse your help,
just hands you a cutting board
and a sharp paring knife
to dice the garlic
as finely as you like.

She moves with graceful speed in the kitchen,
pots on the wood stove perfectly timed.
The smell from the oven makes you think,
fuck gluten intolerance,
I’ll suffer the consequences.
You light the candles with long wooden matches
and ask where to put the burnt stick.
She shows you the kindling bin beside the stove.
Nothing goes to waste here, she says, laughing.

Saturn comes down in perfect time,
scrubbed clean, sleeves neatly rolled,
comb marks still fresh in his hair.

This is a man who eschews excess.
He stays in discount hotels on speaking tours,
wears the single suit he owns,
carried city to city
in a well-worn piece of luggage,
eats hardtack and dried fruit from home,
banks his per diem.

He and his wife share a tacit warmth
that makes you question
the necessity of words.

Dinner arrives in steaming bowls.
Hot bread is passed.
Cold water pours from a pitcher beaded with dew.
The chopsticks are larger than any you’ve used before,
so you focus on each bite
as you bring it carefully to your mouth.
She smiles if your eyes meet across the table.
Saturn keeps his to himself,
emanating a quiet contentment
you find unexpectedly satisfying.

When the table is cleared and hot tea poured,
Saturn leans back and studies you.
Did you enjoy your meal?

Yes. Very much. Thank you.

He says:

We keep things simple.
Everything you used was made here.
We shaped the bowls, the cups, the chopsticks.
The pitcher is clay.
The water comes from a well we dug.
The vegetables from fields we worked.
The bread from grain we grew.
The yeast is kept alive.

The herbs were picked today.
The bees made the wax and the honey.
The chickens give eggs.
The goats give milk.
We give them care and shelter
and take no more than that.

What you tend with your hands
tends you
in return.