On the other hand,
I’m doing rather well.
I pull weeds;
I break soil;
I spike stones;
Rocks turn.
I hack wood;
Fire crackles
And hisses
At my face.
I climb hills;
Balancing pails and pails of water;
Stooping under low roofs;
Stepping over felled trees.
I see sky;
Jetways cutting across furrows of blues:
A world getting away by itself without me.
There are nights when I think stars;
You galaxies away;
Your friends hanging on trees;
Puppet witches with plaster-white feet.
Mornings find me on the horizon;
Dibble in hand;
The sun on my brow;
In my heart a wedge:
Happiness dammed.
You standing there;
Mortal;
Looking like you don’t know me.
How I want to tell you:
Here things grow.
Here the earth changes;
Here I live.
19 July 2008
Pagadian City
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