I’ve plowed red earth
With the might of a dozen oxen….
Scattered my grains on glistening dew;
The reaper inquires in my stead-
How does one count to twelve….
When one is missing on the grid?
Dark nights and checkered dawns
Have I of lately known……
Danced on the razor’s edge,
Barely holding on-
What kept me from tipping?
The masquerade has come and gone...
And I too must move on;
Broken clay pots seldom mend….
So I’m picking up the drift woods
Of by gone tides;
And feast on its crimson embers-
Its ashes on new trails I’d spread.
This token oblation …….
My slumbering cocoon quickens thus;
Brand new butterfly – watch me soar.
By Hope Kalé Ewusi ©
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