I spotted the old man as I was walking on a country path in the early spring, that time of year when the fields are still cluttered with the debris of winter. He was working a small patch of ground with what looked like a bamboo rake, scraping away the dead leaves and loose stubble to uncover a carpet of green plants. I noticed that the long tines of his rake would flex so as not to injure the plants.

He must have sensed that I had stopped to watch him, because he suddenly paused and turned toward me. The impression of an old Eskimo immediately came to mind--he was short, stocky and brown-skinned, and his squint made me think of the eyes of the orient. His hands were cracked and callused, and blended well with the weathered wood of his rake.

As we regarded each other, myself with a bit of self-consciousness (after all, what was I thinking of doing stopping and watching an old man work) he gestured towards a second rake that I hadn't seen resting nearby on the ground. His wordless invitation was clear: "Would you like to join me?"

Surprised at myself, I took off my coat and hung it on the wooden fence post, picked up the rake, and began working beside him. We had worked silently for several hours when he paused to stoop and place his hands on the green exposed growth. I stooped with him and did the same. The plants were healthy, but short and nondescript. To my touch, they felt cool and a bit moist--and, so I felt a sense of incompleteness. I had freed them from the confines of a hard winter, but little more. Why were we doing this? But the way that he touched the plants suggested that he felt something more.

Perhaps he noticed my wistful look because suddenly he pinched a part of my shirtsleeve and began to gently tug, leading me toward a nearby field. He pointed and there I saw a field that was in a full bloom of small white flowers. I could hear the humming of bees, a measure of the field's vitality. Again, we stooped and put our hands down, this time in among the flowers. I could smell the sweet fragrance that was attracting the bees and I could feel the vibrations as the bees landed and sipped the nectar.

The old man tugged again and this time he led me to four boxes--his beehives. He picked up a small twig, carefully removed one of the lids, dipped the twig and offered the honeyed end for me to taste. After our hard work, the sweet honey blossomed in my mouth.

On the return to our field, as I uncovered the plants, I saw in my imagination that this field too would soon be alive with flowers and the hum of bees. When again we paused and stooped to place our hands, I could smell a fragrance, feel a humming in my hands, taste a sweetness on my tongue.

When finally we had finished raking the field, he paused for a moment and then turned to me and made a small bow. Instinctively and a bit awkwardly, I returned the gesture and with a feeling of sadness handed him the second rake. He placed both rakes against a nearby fence and walked away, I presumed towards his home.

On my walk home, I thought about how often I’ve simply drifted past those I’ve encountered on life's short journey. I thought about how we use the mind's rake on the dross of our lives to bring out the flowers of literature and poetry and art. And, I thought about human interaction--about how we have the power to gently lower our masks--the winter coverings that we've built up as we've matured--to find the spirits beneath.

Photo Credit: Carol Raisfeld:

My father's hands were strong and always busy. At eighty-six, he had just begun carving a piece of wood into a walking stick when I took this picture. I liked the play of light on his hand, accentuating the deep crevices. Being a photographer, his camera was always within reach. He was my mentor and taught me about life. Though he's gone now, his hand is still on my shoulder and his spirit will be with me always.

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Carol's work in Photo-Haiku Gallery

Carol's work in Beacons

Carol's "Father's Hands" image with haiku in: Photo-Haiku Gallery

Carol's work in Haiku-Dreams

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Ray Rasmussen:

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