My sons rose up from the river irrigating the groves
Their skin like the tough brown they pushed aside
Shaping trenches in serpentine patterns slithering through the line of trees
Directing their minds focusing the work of their hands to nourish the seeds splintering the rocky soil
Futility I know one day they’ll see behind my eyes entangled in my words but their not old enough
They’re not old enough to remember the wildfire that stole their mother
Her graceful waves consumed in the doorway
Maybe they’re not old enough to find the truth
There is nothing new
They felt the wind wisp through their grasping fingers
Instead of trying to grip it they sit and listen
Sweat in their eyes dust in their lungs they cough yet they earn their rest at dusk with the established work of their hands
The cycle plays under the sunlight the coals crackling the birds straining their calls the dark corners whistling
The fire dies
They eat and drink their work their grief their hunger relative
There is nothing new