What are Days?
Days are garlic and wild scallions, still sprinkling loose dirt,
Days are newly rolled hemp ropes, still damp with water
Days are four thousand nights of deepening stillness,
The sound of water rocking in a wooden bucket on a mule's back.
Days are the revolving poplar door that squeaks on rainy days,
That keeps turning in my tired dreams, now bright, now blurred.
Days are a thirst-quenching blue plum, a papercut silhouette
Of farmers bent with grain under fierce sun on hills' plains.
Days are thick leafy shades, umbrella-like,
Skidding down my aching arms to burrow underground.
Days are water cans storing up sweet and clear thoughts,
Pouring out tears and sweat to choke my throat.