The aged summer breeze lightens its load
With the scent of lingering jasmine.
The heavy washed-out prelude to wanderings.
Now, a stirring in the crisp air is breaking
The stifled aches
Of grandmother's weathered bones
And the blue tom's languid rest.
The west rider roams
Roof tops and fig trees abreast,
And beyond the windows of our homes
A boy scampers to end his own masquerade.
I lower the worn, tattered shade.
The morning yawns its stale shock of breath
As a hound shakes off sleep
From its corner of dust and moth-eaten rugs,
With a wet muzzle it sniffs dawn's death
And an empty bowl.
In other rooms where blankets rise
To fall away,
I pause to ponder the role
Other's will try on for size
In the coming of the day.
She rummages in her teak dresser
For her pink cotton blouse with lace ends,
And sighs as she pulls out her blue singlet.
She tramps to join
Those to whom she pretends,
And weeps for her soul trapped in a net.
And the bustle fades away
And the ticking clock is all she hears
And the sun, so long above, no longer peers in;
She spys for a moment
An image of her winter to come;
Gripping the coffee cup, contents laced,
She rubs the deep lines on her face,
Or balls her hands into fists at all she resents,
All she feels that's not what she meant.
His heart rumpled and discarded with the trash cans
That clutter the dusty street,
Or beaten by the stampede
Of purposeful and preoccupied feet;
Tired eyes read another day's hard work,
And pills that dull his mind. And hands;
Hard and grooved with memories;
The boy's voice rings out to plead,
But he is too broken to hear.
We gather the strings that whip
Wildly around us, and cling tightly:
To lose them would be easier;
We could walk carefree, and blindly.
Cover his hand with yours,
Let her see your cheeks streaked and wet;
Linger where the world cares not
For that's where they live, in their regret.