Lives are carved intricate as
the fall of leaves from the baobab tree.
Into the cuts of her pregnant body,
a fresh green hue dulls to be forgot
–
lives are hemmed on time.
The breach of day into the next
To propagate the stem of a year
–
in another, as counterpart eras
–
that no not how to figure
–
Through memory’s fading gaze
we play under the maze of her shade
bent to age, some stay and some leave
but nobody every breaks free.
–
If we are all trapped,
to grow slow by a cold flame
preserving us in our quietude,
then sit under this old tree,
sit and wait for me-
–
I will come with the rain
–
I will come with death
–
I will come to you-
–
In death, as a birth
upon the shallow waters
of a tide that exists in what it gives
–
and takes.
–
I will brush the leaves of this tree
until each dew drop,
each life falls into one
and we see not in fragments
but as an endless stream undone
to paint passed our contrived horizon.
