A report from the South

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