Under the acacia tree
The wind still blows
Like last year
When it shed the last
Of it’s yellow-ribbed leaf
When I was young
Eager to please
and say please
To friend and stranger both,
If you remember,
I was then, strange.
Am I not still strange?
Sitting under the thorntree
Counting the many bats that roost?
Unlike last year, when they were few
Before the moon multiplied them.
In their dank mossy nests,
Hopping from branch to branch
Sucking on the ripe fruits
Dropping the seeds that seldom grow
There they’ll lie, happy and free
While you dictate the dance
Of my youth
And nab me of one foot
Who knows why
I wait to dance for you?
Patience is veiled
I, with it, keep watch through a sieve
Where a siege is laid on my exhaustion,
I ask, who knows when I shed the last
Of my yellow-ribbed leaf.
Sunburnt, blackened beyond recognition
Lie I, happy and free
In want of all you stole from me –
though, they were few,
The moon shines and deepens their creases
As I’m robbed of my last yellow-ribbed leaf.
Copyright © 2019, all rights reserved