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Poem
Tiny misshapen meringues, puffs of cloud, float 
Like lacework across the green and brown land 
Far beneath. In the distance, they are a little
Bigger, yet still not the towering fortresses of home;
And the snaking roads, mostly dirt this far from city 
Or town, can be followed from horizon to horizon.
At every intersection there is a cluster of houses
Tin roofs sparkling in the bright sunlight, with more
Strung along the roads, a twinkling necklace of homes.
The ochre earth is patch-worked into squares and 
Rectangles, with seams of dark green; each bead
In the necklace of homes stands guard over
Enough for one family to manage, one generation
To another.


My imagination takes me down, down into that 
Foreign land, into a world ruled by the rhythms
Of the seasons, planting, growing, harvesting; and a
Rare journey to a greater world to sell and buy.
I see the unrolling of years, with good harvests,
And bad. Children come and grow into the same 
Rhythm, broken only to move further along the road.
Yet, inexorably, in the distance of my mind, the 
Rhythm stops, a pause as a father takes his leave,
And a son begins the pattern of a new passage
Of seasons, each not unlike the one before. 
It is the great breathing of the world; inhale, 
Pause, exhale, Nature’s unconscious beat.
And I feel fear.


There is no natural rhythm in my life, no 
Ritual of harvest home to count out the 
Compass of my days. Here is where I am,
Not a place of dirt with familiar smell after
Rain; or tree that grows with me, each ring
Sounding the passing parade of years. 
My world has not the sameness and comforting 
Familiarity of a few rectangles of fertile land. 
My horizon is the other side of the world, not 
The line of distant hills, that I have been to but once.
I look down from my swift journey, continent to
Continent, and in my imaginings, I see that I too
Am one breathing of the world, as the farmer below.
And my fear is not of death, but of not living.
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