March

Women from Mêhi are overflowing;

their reserves saturated.

They used to say that January held the

promise of rain. 

But it is now March, and their bodies feel

heavy.

It is earth in it's abundant state. 

Their village can only be found from 

above,

revealing itself hesitantly 

like a creature 

peeking out of a hole for the very first 

time. Promise fulfilled. 

The village is underwater, the women 

underway. The air is wet, 

their climate now only talks in weather, 

patterns are unrecognizable. 

Rituals long gone. The smallest of 

existences breath baffled. 

When the rain stops there will be mud

and tiny flowers birthing their way out, 

and  

callous hands and tired hips carving the

dirt.

Women will slowly unpack everything.  

Pouring their vessels, making room for  

new growth. When spring allows women  

from Mêhi will be birds again.