Risa Bear’s “Or, Sometimes” quietly imagines a future moment of working slowly in the earth—easing fat worms aside, noticing clay caking the wrists, and taking in a small homestead: red barn, irises, bamboo, maples, lilacs around a white house breathing smoke, mint, parsley, fruit trees, geese. The list of ordinary things feels tender rather than proud. The speaker seems to feel that all this rooted, cared-for life raises a wordless question about what the digging means.
The turn comes with acceptance: the clouds do come, and the person in the poem walks toward the house with an even-tempered gaze to a late cold lunch. There are no words, because the exchange between hands and green earth is bodily and complete. The mood is calm, grounded, a little wistful, but mostly peaceful.