She stands at the center, carrying out
The mundane work of the day. And she
Will be there again by dawn, yes,
I can almost see her turning over the sheets
To meet the hour and fetch the pails.
It does not matter that her arms are tired,
Only that there are bodies
And there is thirst.

​

And everywhere she looks
Her eyes get lost in the detail;
The branches slicing through the pale sky,
The leaves rustling against peat moss;
The holes in the leaves, the decomposition.
And twigs breaking underfoot like a fragile
Tea set that has been glued back together.
The one that casts its blame even harsher
When it shatters
For a second time.

​

Her shoulders do not sag by the weight
Of the pails, though in that little face
I can read her rehearsing strength,
As though one can command
The body beyond its might.
With each step further a few droplets
Of water a lost, and under each step,
Everything whispering,
A return into dust.​​​