Beyond the Fishermen

On Inle Lake there is a village
Where houses rest on stilts above the waters.
The families who live there
Farm floating islands
Created over the centuries
By people who reach the village shore in small dugout canoes
Where there is a girl’s orphanage
That grows organic vegetables
And a boy’s orphanage
That grows resolve and healing.
High in the hills is a monastery
Past the house where the beautiful woman
Is washing her hair,
Her husband chopping wood for the cooking fire,
The pagoda’s ancient doors open
To reveal the beautiful Buddha statue inside
And a checkers board I take outside
Inviting the young monk to play
Which draws an interested crowd
Of women and children
Appearing as if out of the thin mountain air
In sight of the distant ridge top village
Two hours away by foot –
There being no other way to get there –
Where the people grow lemons
And dusty goats graze
Down the road passed sugar cane fields,
Passed vineyards, ox carts, pigs, butterflies,
Dung heaps, orchards,
And immense golden seedpods that rattle
Before reaching the boat that brought me here
Beyond the net fishermen floating in canoes with their daughters
Offering to sell fish still gasping for breath,
Which I am tempted to buy and throw back in the water
As the sun begins to set
And the clouds form red and gray Burmese letters
Spelling out words I do not know the meaning of
And our boat takes us back to where we came from
Which is the end of all voyages.