The Adobe People

The adobe people walk out their doors as one—
singing—as soon as it rains, rolling the earth
between blunted hands to patch an eye,
a knee, replace a missing toe. Ruddy-brown
coils and eager youth surround the dressers of hair,
and lovers carefully repair the private consequence
of passion. The creases of a season’s hungry cries
are smoothed from the cheeks of the young,
a gesture as much of hope as love. The adobe people
are gentle in this, the mercy-season, laughing
in the knowledge of their perpetual undoings,
in the knowledge of all broken flesh restored.

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