Day 54

A woman picks wood from the rubble of her house.
Here was the table, here was the chest of drawers.
The rains have begun but some wood
is dry, having lain for days under fallen concrete. A few
bags of food still lie among slabs of concrete.
She had been storing them for the winter, that now has come.
She pulls out what she can, takes a match (how
could it still be there?) from her pocket, strikes it on a rock.
Unbelievably finds something she can use as a pot.
She will burn table and drawers and memories
to make soup for her children.  Will the children
outlast the wood?  Will the remains
of their lives, soaked or charred, find their usefulness,
soften these beans, these lentils, these enduring grains?