Pico

At Pico
picture the rice fields
and flowers between them
and stone paths to walk on
picture shoes—leather shoes
hitting stones at every turn
picture more leathers—bags
wrapped around your shoulder
hanging, dangling, hitting your hips
as you make your way toward
where he lives
picture him sitting there on that
tattered table, all smiles
the smell of fried fish on the wall
of the hovel
his mother's lips on the dipper
hot steam blessing her face
picture his smile
the silence of his hands on the air
painting a life
with you
these were the afternoons
the afternoons of pure delight
of light rain outside
of mud on shoes

At Pico, a hovel
a mother at the kitchen
a Deaf child giggling
was the life I pictured.

I pictured.