The Curse of November
So the October sky let loose its stores
in drip and drop as nature restores
the wilted and silted back to life.
A rainbow here, a rainbow there.
All signs of good fortune in time.
The Shuramuroves* flock in distant sky,
criss-crossing in their flap of honor.
Seers cast bones to the harvest of March,
some say it will be too little some too much,
but the bushes are cleared,
Readied for what the farmer bestows.
Sheep bleat to the mounds of chaffs,
cattles goaded for the till
as children pleasure in rain dances.
Some catch ishwa for relish,
some make mud houses
in endeavor to turn around wishes.
Like fallen heroes buried to rise no more,
no seed underneath jingle with the bells of Christmas.
All hopes washed away by October storm.
Not even dew will save the bushes.
Skeletal trees hang, so void of foliage.
The blue sky ushers down the sun’s heat
to lick up our hopes in storms of dust
in relive of the gust of August.
Some say the breeze from the west
got us into this mess.
Some say the gods are longing for an apology
for the granted wish of that fateful November night.
Copyright © Energy Mavaza | Year Posted 2020
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