That Day

While they were sweeping away the rubble of his home,
he could not remove his limbs or memories
from that rubble; it was his life
churning
into that day's sweepings,
again and again.
They were sweeping away his life as though it was snow.
People and fields, melted into his
memories,
like tears,
dripping
on the furniture, the axes, the oil vat,
on the water jar he had filled that morning,
from which he would pour water for them to drink.