Poetry for History of Dairying

water from stone

By Michael Carey

The most beautiful spot

they say, in Ames,

in the fall or early summer

or mid-May is inside

the Dairy Industry Building.

Three gentle Jerseys

reach out from

the college hallway

stretching their necks

from the flat world

of their maker's hand

into yours, and

all of a sudden

you are no longer inside,

fresh water streams

from stone walls

and pours in a pool at your feet

holding you

in its shimmering hands,

letting you

dance for a while

on its trembling surface,

you on the flagstone patio

talking with your friends and

smiling and eating ice cream.

Never have you been

so unsure of what

was real and what was not,

what was moving

and what was stone.

A huge Jersey bull coddles

and comforts his cows

as if you are the strangers here,

marvelous misshappen lumps

that have inexplicably found themselves

on this green and open plain

hardened by life

and sadness and curiosity.

Sixty-five years and no cracks

have yet ruined this firing,

these timeless moments in time,

this groggy Iowa clay

beaten into handmade ashlers

and burned sixty hours at a time

at 500 degrees Fahrenheit the first day, 1800

the second and 2000 the remaining 58.

It was hard work back then,

during the Depression, you

had better believe it, and hot.

It took stubbornness

and guts and pain

to make this quiet moment

in the Iowa shade,

this sweet air and sunshine,

this little bit of peace

deep inside your present,

modern, unfathomable work.

Oh what is beauty?

What is dust? I say.

What is dirt?