Blue clad and behatted
Tending to the rice
Determined yet superstitious
Calves sold half price
Gnarled hands tie knots
Stakes hammered into earth
Mothers, nose-ringed, stuck
Appraised of the markets worth
A slower circle of life
The farmer or the cow
Waiting for the rain to stop
Yet enjoying it right now
The cultivated garden grows
On any patch of dirt
Tuppence for every pumpkin
Surely doesn’t hurt
Buffalo poop now sundried
On the corner, sold in bags
Every family in the valley
Desires to shed their rags
The lady with her eggs
The boys grilling fish
Coconut smoothies, ice cold
Or any other drink you wish
The dust blurring teary eyes
As the sun pounds down again
Hang that old washing out
Before the returning rain
There is no sin in being wrong. The sin is in our unwillingness to examine our own beliefs, and in believing that our authorities cannot be wrong.
Neil Postman
1994ever 