The Student

cleaned of a slate
I have the piano fingers of the beginner, long and shaking
my teachers have taken me
these are my teachers
they are the people of Africa
the land,
the cattle sheds holding light and wisdom
in the tangled undergrowth
the land, accepting under dust and war
unmoving under the stars sending new days across the night
gates gathering dust, rust
less movable, but stable


Land has been my confidant
but my greatest teacher
has been the people of this land
those now in silent dry wind watched graves
I have watched these people
they wait, walking slowly
assuming nothing but potential harm
smiling in the cold
laughing in the dark
quietly keeping monthly supplies
there are no presumptions in Africa
there is no relief, no redemption
there is a day, an hour, a joke
an appreciation that we will all walk to the grave
but that for now
we are alive.