Wednesday, March 25, 2009

In Amazonas

Not home – there are no floors there,
not home, but we can go there,
not home, for life is strange there;
two planes, one boat to get there,
by the Coro Coro River.

The rainy season’s ended;
the rivers rush and tumble,
the woods are pulsing, throbbing,
chattering, skittering, cawing,
chewing, never stopping.

Dry yellow, flat savannah,
here green peaks around a clearing –
chest high in river water,
rocks smooth enough to slide on,
we swim-walk to the grotto.

And how the people live here –
no walls but only roofs here,
and everything is net here,
the hammocks made of mesh here,
from the ceiling baskets drooping.

No sense of savage living
but rather quiet knowing,
and everything is growing,
is cut and comes back growing,
the green forest always giving.

We ride a riverboat now,
burned hollow from a log now,
glide smoothly on the river,
see one thousand birds of color
flash across our site now.

Tarantulas walk on water,
the alligators snapping.
The dolphins really swim here;
the snakes hang down like strapping.
The guacamayas, tame, come home here.

In the lodge where we were napping,
no see-ums are attending
We drink some rum while slapping,
too bad our time is ending,
because we are no longer strange here.

© 2007 Roberta Star Hirshson