Feast With Our Families

Feast With Our Families
© Surazeus
2018 11 11

Squishing red mud on Saturday at dawn,
I thrust the shovel to square-cut the sod,
then heave it aside on the slope of grass
where worms, spiders, and beetles crawl away.

Heaving gray bricks, I set them in straight row,
then brush dust off their tops as she kneels down
with level to align each with the rest,
tapping it softly with the rubber hammer.

Hosing mud off our pants and shoes, we laugh
as gold sun gleams through pine trees on the wall
we built together alongside our house,
then go inside to shower and eat lunch.

Spaghetti with sauce red as blood on plates,
peach wine sparkling in sunrays through the window,
and garlic bread, we consume at the table
in silent contemplation of the land.

Sitting on the wood lounge she built by hand,
I play guitar and sing with chirping birds
about how our ancestors farmed the rich land
for ten thousand years to feast at the harvest.

The Earth keeps spinning through the empty void,
ripe crops keep growing from the humid soil,
and children keep sprouting from wombs of mothers
who give them names for fathers lost in wars.

We drove horse-pulled wagons along new roads,
and built new farms on shores of gushing rivers,
singing in the twilight with loving clans
while kings far away fought to live in castles.

Though no kings now fight for our loyal faith,
politicians campaign to win our votes,
but still we plant vegetables in our gardens,
and feast with our families on holidays.