IN THE MILPA

                                                                       

"For the forming of the earth

they said 'Earth'.  It arose suddenly,

just like a cloud, like a mist, now forming, unfolding..."  Popol Vuh

From the air this country looks

like a green, floating garden in a white frame.

The sky's special shade of blue makes one feel

that paradise is near; giant puffs of white proclaim

joy across the open air.

Yesterday's rain charged the earth,

crashing hard upon banana leaves,

as if a war had begun: the roar muffled our voices.

Afterwards, toads rejoiced in bellowed coos

that kept us awake until daybreak.

Along the lane lined by cane, rain water

has brought heaven to dragonflies.

Puddles spot the white, clay road like a map of lakes.

That Mayan couple turns into children when they wade

among their corn and squash.  Growth is a glow

for them, a love affair that keeps them young.

In dark overalls with a rifle slung upon his back,

this farmer is more boy than grandfather.

His eyes flash:  "this is a way of life."

Mapaches—raccoon-- compete for corn.

They call them kuluk in Maya.

The lady says there is a calabasa in the sunlight

on the vine, right there, alone,

like a diamond begging freedom from the earth.

When the sky humbly bows to dusk, I lean on my car

and tell them, "I can take you home now,"

to their village nearby, but the man points to the sun

barely above the western horizon,

"We have another hour of light; we'll stay here until night

and walk back after work is done."

I leave them to their love affair with the land.

I wave before I drive away, but they have already

vanished behind the corn below the pink sky

and the myriad dragonflies.

         

-- C.S. Cholas 

Corozal, Belize (October 1989)