Winner of 2019 Sinclair Poetry Prize
Evening Street Press
“For many years, in many poems, Matthew Spireng has watched the world and himself with close and patient attention. In poems arising from farming, or logging, or writing and reading, there are strong portrayals of failure and success, danger and safety, or doubt and certainty. One source of the richness in this book is that you have to wait for each poem to tell you, in a given case, which side of the question might be better. It depends on the feeling, which Spireng gets profoundly right time after time.”
—Henry S. Taylor, Pulitzer Prize for Poetry winner, 1986
Good Work
Good work, I thought today, is the muse,
the fount of creation, the spark that lights
the wick that lights the way to writing a poem.
I was raking stones with a shovel along the driveway
to gather them in piles and shovel them up to place them
in the wheelbarrow to dump in the potholes winter
and the spring thaw had conspired to create.
There was such a profusion the eight-hundred feet
from town road to garage had to be driven
like a slalom course, though with no chance of success.
The ping of the pebbles in the metal wheelbarrow
punctuated the work. A neighbor honked and waved.
It was too much to do in the time at hand and,
though I’d hoped to get a third of the work done,
I could only come close. But I’d done enough to see
that the stones thrown to the side of the drive by the plow
would nowhere near fill all of the potholes that gaped.
Still, as I’d thought, it was good work, better
than idleness, better than napping, better than
nothing at all. I could see what I’d accomplished, and
when I drove out I could feel good work still to be done.