THE POET’S EYE
THE POET’S EYE
BY JOHN TUFT
Jacob farms 120 acres in Virginia. Some corn and beans, some cows and sheep. He leaves the pigs for the North Carolina lowlands to handle. Jacob lives alone, just him and Rusty, his collie dog. He lives in the house that he grew up in and farms the land his father, and his father before him, farmed. The Blue Ridge Mountains are there in the distance, keeping watch over saints and fools alike. The town has grown some, but not to the point yet of being uncomfortable. Right is still right and wrong is still wrong. When a big storm came off the mountains and took off the roof of the barn, Jacob knew he needed help and put a call in to the local Tractor Supply Help Board. They said they knew just who to send for the job, but Jacob was anything but ready for who showed up that hot day in July.
Breeze was a few years younger than Jacob, with a soft Virginia drawl, blue eyes that played tag with the sky, and a no-nonsense attitude about what getting the job done would require. She hooked on her tool belt and perched a Virginia Tech hat over her blonde hair, followed him up the ladder humming Sanctus, and stopped at the peak of the roof to look around with an admiring sigh. “Don’t this beat all?” she said to Jacob. “Yeah, the storm did a lot of damage,” he replied. “No, not that,” she laughed. “The view.” She indicated the rolling contours of the fields and pasture, the sun overhead, the garden in back of the house, the mountains in the blue haze of a July morning. “This makes my heart sing,” she said softly. Jacob took a long second look at this builder. “Yeah,” was all he could manage.
Breeze turned back to him, aware that he was studying her. She had the grace to give a self-conscious smile. “My momma always said I have the poet’s eye.” “And an angel’s heart,” murmured Jacob. “What?” asked Breeze. Jacob tried to cover. “Something my grandpa used to say. ‘The poet’s eye, an angel’s heart, beauty forever, from this we start.’ I didn’t know what it meant before, but now…” his words trailed off. Breeze busied herself in getting down to business. “About 50 planks should do it. I’d get those ones from the Amish sawmill; they don’t short you none.” She walked along the narrow edge of the roof trusses, casually balancing with no hesitation. “Tar paper and shingles, or metal?” she asked. Jacob was too absorbed in wondering how she became so fearless. “Whatever you say.” She chuckled, “It’s your roof, Jacob.”
Something about the way she said his name made him think of poetry. He rubbed his cheeks and sighed. What was happening? He became aware that Breeze was still talking. “We think we’re such builders. Did you ever watch a hummingbird build its nest? Determination and perseverance. One piece at a time until they’ve created a home for their young ones. Don’t that beat all, Jacob?” All Jacob could think about was how he’d like to hear her saying his name every day from now on. Suddenly he knew in his heart that he just had to hear her saying his name every day. “I’ll be helping you,” he blurted out although he knew he had more than enough work to do. But now everything had changed. He wanted to be around Breeze. He could do the other work in the evenings, he told himself. You don’t have to,” Breeze told him. “My roof, my rules,” Jacob replies, mentally kicking himself for sounding a bit more gruff than he had intended.
“You don’t think a woman can do it without a man?” Breeze stopped her measuring. Jacob tried to find the high ground. “No, I — I just like the view,” he said meekly. “Jacob,” she began and this time there was chill, not thrill, in his heart at the mention of his name. She saw his discomfort and realized what was happening. “That would be great,” she finished. “Thank you, Jacob.” And this time the thrill of hearing his name was back. And for a week, Breeze came every day and led him up onto the roof to work together and admire the view. They soon realized that they could anticipate each other’s needs up there and their work together became a kind of poetry all its own. Jacob would rise an hour earlier than usual to get the chores done and prepare a delicious lunch for the two of them. Breeze began bringing gallons of sweet tea and it became their communion shared under the willow trees beside the stream at the edge of the pasture.
As any poet can tell you, poetry comes from the heart, seeking to draw one into beauty and truth. And such is love, as well. That is why, also, if you are driving through Bedford County and happen upon the Peaks of Otter, you really should park and get out. To make the climb to the top of Sharp Top and look southeast. There in the valley you will see the barn. On the farm now owned and run by Jacob and Breeze together. The project ended up taking a month. But the reason is very clear. On the roof, a dark background shows off white tiles in sharp relief. Spelling out the words: The poet’s eye, an angel’s heart, beauty forever, from this we start.
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
