The days remain in a bucket of water
The wells are kept for the use of the dead who splash the
walls with their silence

Tired from wringing out the damp weather
The women lean back on the air
Lean back on trapped trees
Their aching hips share the carpenter winds' exhaustion

The women of the mothers' village set the houses upright
that the clumsy children upended, children they pin to their
skirts

You wouldn't put a wall outdoors in such weather
Only the roads are free to go where they please