I crush my poem in my hands
like a dried leaf.
-Edgardo Maranan, “One Fall Day”
Tired of being the weepy, anguished
poet, I stand on the white terrace
to listen to the steady spurts
of the tricycles’ vigil.
I ponder at everything.
Grey clouds floating high
in the nonchalant sky,
wiping away traces of curiousity;
the mango trees not bearing
this summer,
weaving only promises, flowering
lightly within the dark leaves;
or the smell of thick smoke
watered by the dew
lingering over the orange roof.
And so my tears pile
on the things I see—
disappearing skies,
glistening trees
and drab tricycles.
I stay here and let my senses
forget everything as I become another entity,
soon to be forgotten too.
