It’s Monday and always women dance around trees.
They were/will burn. On evidences, On testimony.
I dance around the sapling in my minds roots.
Furiously and with fervour… where is it
Where is it? The joy the resistance they danced for?
C’mon dance girl dance.
I am not good I am not bad
Trees do grow … our linden is wider than 2 sets of arms.
It drops honey perfume in early summer. I trip on its roots.
Have you the time to hear this?
Open the window … a bee.
Writing about trees
They are growing outside and inside me.
The nerve ending sweeps and swerve
They undo do me.
A blackbird is on the bough
The linden listens
Nothing is said
They sit it out now together.
Margery quibbles and mumbles
Quite a few really … may die for dancing round trees.
Isn’t it good that’s over?
Come home soon. We will make a plan for the lispers, the heretics and their dancing whispers.
from Conversational Poetry- majena mafe
