There was an Orangutan from Malaysia
who dreamed of leaving Southeast Asia.
“Sure, I’d love to linger,
but it’s hard being ginger
when you live deep in forests of Asia.”
A downy, white feather twists languidly, drifting downward.
I spot it as I stand on my balcony.
compelled to follow the feather to its final resting place,
be it inside or outside the rail.
I’m transfixed because it moves impossibly slowly;
gravity’s hold on it is tenuous,
a puppy’s breath could put it on another course —
changing its fate.
And in those moments of lazy falling,
I, too, feel fateless.
I found a world in an old book
so darkly like my own.
But built on sands I’d never seen,
their marbled grains were blown
across the land and through the door
to an abandoned house
where lived not one single soul —
nor dog, nor cat, nor mouse.
Just a flock of lively shadows
that danced on floor and wall,
in a dread silent cotillion —
a shadow monster’s ball.
And though I was not invited,
my shade was welcomed in.
I was, to my own shadow, a
But I am just a cruel slaver;
for when it’d broken free,
my shadow moved with such swift grace
as in ‘t I’d never seen.
And standing like a stone statue,
I watched these twirling forms,
and wondered whether they’d blown in
upon the desert storms?
I saw a field — once sunflowers —
now reaped at harvest time.
Just stiffened stalks and wrinkled leaves,
and one head past its prime.
Those glorious yellow petals,
drooping — facing the ground,
were the only way I knew the
crop that’d been mowed down.
How sad to be a survivor
who lives by a bowed head
once the ones that faced the sun
have joined the newly dead.
glide wide at the bend,
their might mute
in precarious piles —
yet they stand
the palm trees
stand over stone ruins —
a leaning tree
reaches its gnarled, bent trunk
to shade pilgrims
strange landscape —
rubble swept into piles
by what hand?