Mungu Wetu

Morning broke this morning,

sleep caught like crystal dew

in the prison call of the sun

dawning far away

from the grey

bland aftertaste of day,

the horizon’s lifeless grain;

a mauve shawl of the dying winter

emerging in splinters, wanting to dawn

more, more than just day, today

Flitter falls, fell with the night,

first eyes, found first blossom trails

on silent fairy lights, carrying in the wind.

Feet step on delicate origami worlds

scattered miniatures of all we hold,

revolve in the breath they blow

into life glowing inside ourselves

within the starblood centers of the blossom

uncurled and alive from where they fell,

the mist has pressed them onto themselves

into one amassing tide of perfume

of the most delicate youth, running beneath

the powder fall of thoughts,

of possibilities,

of life

That morning masks and mutes,

numbs the focus of the falling life

and renders the sweet stung scent

blanched by its own discovery

when in the full circle of a year,

all stops, acutely aware

as if hung on a weightless impasse,

clung to a belief that will never come

and through this infinite, the miniature worlds

of the blossoms curls, grow slowly apart;

mark the splintering of their white

by creases of crimson spills of sight

and find refuge in the fight to grapple

and turn a shadowless light;

a transparent disguise

to their inseparable selves

one hundred and forty seven selves

fell into the blossom’s plight

in my first sight of spring

each whispering

-When we fall, we fall

each and all, to the one floor

from the same great height-

and on they fall, and on we fall

converging in woe, ingrained

in the dirt pressed from our identity;

the fossil set of our equal footprints

mar on the blossom grounds of life,

unable to live out of difference,

outside of season, too afraid of seeing

ends, when they are the beginnings

to the hemlock spin of our blossom creases,

blown into concentric spiraling designs

of the forgotten fingerprints of spring

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