These are the places that time, forgot.
That history and memory etch into emerald canopies over mud floors.
Cast iron burns hotter, in dutch pots that wear scars as old as
Her hands and mine,
which after all this time, still cannot scrub as hard as
hers – so smoke smears and stains still remain
on dresses and drapes.
Breezes call me to gullies deep
so I follow nature’s litter.
Trails of coconut leaves and gourds –
empty caskets that we once drained in refuge from the relentless sun.
My childhood is repainted through eyes that remember
her hands, at work
and the time it takes to
and her story
into my own.