As if rice fields, with
rows and channels we ply across. Almost
idyllic under the heat and rain
of sweat, dedicated to the task of
giving ourselves to the land, planting
seeds that have no leaves, no blossoms -

to even try to find a road home. Porcelain bowls
and dinner at the table, waiting for all
to return. And a mother feeling an ancient pride
as the steam rises, and her young son smiles.