Sitting in it.
The evening sunlight stretched across my lap
like a thin blanket just meant to keep my legs warm.
Birds chirp as they nestle in the trees.
Their mother's outstretched arms.
Fairies flicker in the golden light
singing the flowers to sleep.
Spirits of the sky and dirt bustle about
as the day slips into night.
Honey colored rays fade into pale blue steel.
Fade into charcoal gray.
Fade into black.
And, I am sitting in it.
The stillness of the dark comforting me,
same as the light.
Humans are a social species, the men
in white coats, whom we have been
taught to trust, persuade us. Mr. President
mills about, run-of-the-mill
if you will, running the mill of the party,
the gathering. The women, like bushels
in their bustles, bustle about, foofing
their ruffles as trivialities are exchanged,
like bites
of cake that no one wants to admit
are too small. Mrs. First Lady extinguishes
the fire with a fire extinguisher of perfume,
atomized droplets
settling on chiffon like the Pilgrims
at Plymouth Rock. The men, neatly
assembled like compact
cars fresh off the assembly line,
assemble the women, corralling them
as a herd, unleashing
the lasso when one of them makes
herself heard.
Over the tarred road lies a land we seldom search
of whispering winds through sugarcane hills.
Spills of sunlight chilled on butterfly wings,
carrying me graciously through the open space
as my heart’s bass beats to the insect's sound...
the freedom of the hills is unbound,
wild...
like the sunflower’s yellow to the sky,
trickled water marks over the dry stream bed,
out here...
even the dead is still alive.
Sugarcane butterflies of mad colours bristle
through the breeze that whistles around my limbs,
as whims of flying invade my soul...
persuade my heart to melt out into the day
and rediscover what it is to play.
Without dwell...
Earth’s love swells and grows my mind,
finds that sparkle that finds my smile
as I am left fertile in the land that surrounds.
Noises of the tarred road are drowned by the depth,
by the breath of the tree leaves that rustle,
the birds that bustle about the deep, green valley,
vitality...
Out here, is rich like pure honey without dime.
Just life...
Just time...
Existing as it should,
could this be magic misunderstood?
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