Putting pixel to page,
he types.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Fingers flurry away,
he swipes.

Zap.
Zap.
Zap.

Showing symptoms of age
he writes.

Crap.
Crap.
Crap.

.

•ch-
ances p-
resent
themselves at times most inopportune
• long-kept secrets  made known from
fists clenched loose..•the gavel in turn
fell a little too quick, too so-
on•the last piece to the puz-
zle granted as if it was boon•completi-
ng the picture... only to reveal a weary,
long s-
tanding
ruse•

.

.................
        .........    

Remembering,
how fast April, May and June ended,
gone.......yet, their breezes,
still whistle their songs into July
brazenly...heard by conscious, sharp ears,
by the bedroom door, i see how they
blow and push...how they move everything
...................
like these dancers on the window
moving with such grace,
always obsequious
to the call of the wind,
  ....................
soft silky bodies...dancing freely
moving with a gentle sway...flowing
flinging, waving up, down....in floral,
fruity and rustic prints....flimsy,
like summer scarves, in yellows,
reds, greens, blues, and browns
...................
baring......sometimes, hiding
a rich tapestry of an arcadian scene:
wide open areas of lush green
beside gold-colored fields,
eyes of passersby are stunned even more
by the long, wide, swaying leaves
of the proud  tobacco plants.
.....................
tireless hanging dancers, graceful and lithe,
organza curtains, pierced by rays of sunlight,
dancing with much fire, as wind becomes wild,
...but, shy at nights, when stilled by drawn blinds...
.........................

........Dancers........
....­.................
   ..............


      Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
  July 1, 2018