Sprawled on my soft leather sofa
One Sunday after church service
Reading Okara’s “Spirit of the Wind”
And my infant son is sleeping nearby:
He would never leave me alone.
I couldn’t tell whether I was reading
Because he was asleep or
He was asleep because I was reading.
But from the wind came the laughter of my
From over at the garden
Where they gather to play
And the wind keeps blowing.
Oh how they laugh such laughable laughter.
Freely they laugh hysterically, sillily
As if their lives depended on it.
Their high pitched chattering
Their piercing shouts
Twittering trough to my juvenile repertoires
Exhuming them from the cemetery of memory
To haunt my childhood chronicles.
This was me again
Laughing crazily in the garden
And on my sofa
He is up from his siesta, my son
He sees my laughing quietly,
He joins me.