"smoke, sweat, dirt and flesh"

For those who may think poetry is namby-pamby stuff, here is a poem by Gregory Orr:

                  Work Gloves

          All morning with gloved
          hands, we grip and tug
          burdock and the tough
          fibrous stalks of chicory.
          We knock roots against
          bootsoles to jar
          the clumped earth loose.

          When the brushpile's
          tangled mound is high enough
          we set it ablaze and stand
          squinting into the heat,
          waiting for the branch
          that always rises whole
          and flaming, ready
          to sprint to where it settles
          and put out its sparks
          with quick, flat
          slaps of our bamboo rakes.

          At dusk, easing down
          on porch steps to unlace
          my boots, I pause:
          smoke, sweat, dirt and flesh
          make this smell I love:
          I hold my face in my hands
          and breathe deeply.

                  Gregory Orr