Poetry's Doing

Poetry sits at my window sill with disheveled hair,
ends split, like estranged lovers.
Sleep kinks in its eyes, sloth in its body language,
it seems to have aged, outraged --
endlessly waiting for bright things,
to string into a garland of peace.

It tries eavesdropping on the jagged monologue of the estranged couple
sitting under an autumnal tree.
Unable to shake that image, it goes berserk in free verse.
Word chases word, bird chases bird, as sturdy notes
scatter in the ambient breeze, flying untrammeled.

It tries to filch some sparkle from the rising sun.
Wary of its intentions, the sun hides its splendor
behind a knot of trees.


Applying a delectable layer of orange marmalade
on slightly burnt buttered toast,
from my window, I watch boisterous birds bantering.

Trying to make the most of a Sunday morning,
willing the laidback grasshopper into movement,
my fingers linger on my palms, calming my frayed nerves.

A discarded mask flies untethered into the polluted air,
lamenting the unfairness of it all then falls on a wild shrub,
below which the early birds are looking for grub.

A woman clad in orange and black
suddenly slackens her pace as a brood of dogs
break into savage barks. She watches, petrified.

Choking with excitement,
poetry heads towards a thatched house in the distance,
from which emanates a trail of smoke.
The woman in orange and black also runs and takes shelter there.
She and the newborn poem have a heart-to-heart talk,
watching a tiny girl sitting outside the hut,
studiously stringing flowers into a garland.

The sun smiles, the girl smiles,
a ray touching her cheek, which sparkles.

The spark ignites the wilderness.
It is poetry's doing.