Log Cabin Chronicles
The sun comes to this country road and heats
the soil, the bleaching clothes, the peasant's face,
and trees and houses' shadows interlace
along the paths where land and river meet.
A wooden sculpture shows its vacant eyes,
the rocks exhibit green along the streams
and old verandas made for waves and dreams
are filled with drifting leaves and butterflies.
This is the hour when women warm the house
and lemon flowers fill the farms with scents,
as farmers work the fields and cattle browse
and ghosts return to tombwood monuments.
No sounds are heard when sunlight slips away
and blurs the paths where only spirits stray.
Rosa Clement writes in Manaus, Brazil.
© Rosa Clement 1999/Log Cabin Chronicles/9.98