The whistling wind blowing against our faces
The dry leaves, rushing to the ground
As if in a race
The now empty trees, dancing to an unknown tune.
The rush of the breeze
Sitting on the motorcycle
Chasing away the heat of the sun
I could almost sneeze.
Arms stretched wide
Eyes on the sky
Body floating with the dry leaves
The weightless pregnant air
To touch a drop of rain
The hallelujah stance
The waving dance
Like happy palms
Like flying leaves
Freedom we feel.
©2018 Busola S. Kolade.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
The whistling wind blowing against our faces
The dry leaves, rushing to the ground
As if in a race
The now empty trees, dancing to an unknown tune.
The rush of the breeze
Sitting on the motorcycle
Chasing away the heat of the sun
I could almost sneeze.
Arms stretched wide
Eyes on the sky
Body floating with the dry leaves
The weightless pregnant air
To touch a drop of rain
The hallelujah stance
The waving dance
Like happy palms
Like flying leaves
Freedom we feel.
©2018 Busola S. Kolade.
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