Searching

I don’t often write poems. But sometimes the moment demands it. In the midst of processing our time in Cambodia’s Stung Treng Province, this is what I came out.

 

Days go by.

Glowing sun, my early waker.

Finding food.

The shadows creep.

Rise and fall, always the same.

Roots of my spine, often parched.

Calloused hands.

Stiff neck.

Searching, searching.

Hungry.

Still searching.

Centuries, they had known, but never did I.