Long robed African women carry water on their heads
large jars precariously up hill from the well
every morning to the village and its sheds
with their cattle, to their children and husbands that tell
of their hunt, or the lion outside the kraal,
all talk of their joys and woes,
the way things are.
Time stands still.
Not much different here, in America,
where complexity hides the simple.
We’re caught by ritual routines,
time rushes Monday on to Sunday
when Hope gets its shots
lifts joys up as birds might fly
our life as soft as our pillows
but with joy fleeting woe stays,
in the way things are.
Kent Bowker 5/17/2015