Restless I strain at the silence. The memory of an armed man's face swathed bandit like, cap erasing eyes, intimidates sleep. Once brown hands reached for boongon tearing husks away cradling fruit's tender tang, reached for coconuts slicing them wet dripping from chin and hands, scraping meat with carver's care, child's delight. Once brown hands poured water splashing into clay pots, forced the grinding stone, tended orchid bursts, fed the fire. Now, fruit waits.
Mungo pods hang black in the field.
Dry corn sags on the stalk. One cup guards a fire-scarred post, a lid neighbors a broken jar, the silent grindstone sinks into the memory of a home. Documents posted to the AMBS World Wide Web site by individual employees of the seminary reflect their own thoughts, interests and activities. This information does not necessarily represent official positions and policies of Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary. Creators of individual pages assume responsibility for the content of their documents.