going to rivers,

I search for something to drink

dust surrounding me.

I push by people

who hold vases made of clay,

who hope to provide.

into the water

I lower my own clay vase;

water rushes in.

people around me

carry all that they can hold

back to the village.

after a mile,

I make it to my own home

humble as is packed.

cracked and muddy homes

still serve as a shelter now

after many years.

holes that are in walls

show me the patterns of life

that we all live by.

grandma and grandpa,

mom, dad, sisters and brothers

aunts and uncles too.

they all await me,

and my weary arms provide

the water we need.

the sun is up high,

though I left after it rose;

much time had gone by.

now, what will be done?

cooking, drinking, or cleaning?

will it be enough?

simple and daily,

this task will always repeat

as long as I live.