To preface this poem, I should mention that there are two seasons in northern Madagascar: the hot, windy season and the very hot, rainy season. The last few weeks have marked the changing of seasons, with relatively cooler temperatures and a lot less rain. I welcome the end of rainy season; the roads become passable again, it's not unbearable to be out in the middle of the day, and most of all... no more leaky roof!
Here is the poem I wrote a bit ago in my village.
Because the rain completely saturated the leaf roof above my bed and caused me to curl against pre-dawn pillows
and because the roosters insist upon announcing the first light each day regardless of how hard you close your eyes against it
and because no one else in the world had woken before me
and my footprints were the first ones in the sandy path
and the low tide allowed for still-softly-falling drops to patter in their rippling pools
I was able to hear one sound this morning.
One sound building and crashing against itself:
miles away, massive blue waves creating a wall of the same sound
that is never the same.
How do we know something exists without seeing it?
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