Day 1,032

with thanks again to Dr. Dorotea Gucciardo

Close to the yellow line
a man is building a house
of clay. Adobe. Outside
the temperature is uncomfortably
hot; when you walk into
his adobe hut, it’s cool. Dark.
Every day he goes out, his donkey
pulling a cart, to the place
on the other side
of the line
where the mud is better.
He goes, knowing
full well what
he’s risking: nothing less
than his life,
the donkey’s. But this mud
not long ago
used to be his; used to be
something he could dig
freely, whenever
he chose; now
he must go
(after dark? before dawn?)
to shovel the mud
claimed by the Occupier
so he can keep building
his house. He builds.
Builds with his hands.
A simple act.
A defiant act. An act
for his dignity, his well-being.
An act that bespeaks,
hour by hour,
his belief in a future.