You say
it’s too hot
to see the sights-
that’s okay,
because baby,
none of these sights
compare to the sight
that is you.

In Georgia, it is 82 degrees.
Sweltering sticky heat and air so thick with humidity
It’s like you’re swimming through syrup
Weigh me down.
Sweat slips down my spine like living water, a reminder that
I am here— uncomfortable, yes, but not quite hurting.
People smile. I smile back.

In New York, it’s 39 degrees.
Wind whips at my face, rendering my cheeks rosy and stinging my eyes with tears.
My teeth chatter, rattling my whole jaw with them.
The subtle pain reminds me I’m alive.
I’m not quite sure when I decided pain and existence were synonymous
But I did
And today is another reminder.
I smile. No one smiles back.

At least they’re alive. At least I am.

The rain is falling down the winter sky
the fog is wrapped like moss around the house
a fire is burning in the stove and I
am curled up in my hole, an elder mouse
who's seen the wars and lived to tell the tale
who's belled the cat and stolen all the cheese
who's climbed the stair and slid down on the rail
who's lived through summer's heat and autumn's freeze.
That is the past, for now the days are warm
even in this winter-time of life
although I'd take the snows to rainy storms,
for burrowing beneath avoids the strife
of dodging hawks and cats, and also owls
but in the sky the future softly growls.

The winter blues are rich with gloom,
twisting my heart with apathy.

And perhaps shame too, let it not hide behind the weather.

Is it this dark obsession or some hidden transgression?

All the lessons learned, but failure is all that remains.

What road is left, I cannot see between the flickers of my dwindling flame.

Falling away
like leaves from autumn trees
Like summer departing
it feels quite alarming
how fast it became hard to sleep
No longer easy to walk ever since
the spring in my step
became a web that entangles
my world
of winter
it's become so cold
since all of my friends have gone
and the question
echoes and echoes inside my mind
What have I done?

the cold quiet of a winters night
it moves through me
every crash of the sea
every leaf rolling falling

I hear the droning moans of Winter
Blowing on my house so cold
Northwest winds from Dakota plains
Aimed at this Dakota home

It’s endurance is commendable
One hundred and eight years
Of standing here in this weather,
I have only been here forty-nine

There are creaks and groans
And sagging a bit from settling
Crackled, worn and flaking...
And the house is aging too.

A Life

Let's follow each other.
On Twitter.
Let's follow each other.

What can you handle?
What's your Twitter handle?

Let's follow each other.
My brother.
My sister.
Let's say one thing or another.

The season has changed.
We are here.
Dry Season is here.

In our midst I feel its presence.
The weather is nice.
It makes sense.
Dry Season comes with ice.

Guessing around the hills in solitude,
I realized the droughtiness of the soil.
I cleansed my body with olive oil.
I overheard the songs of a lovely bird from a high altitude.

Away from the constellation of the stars,
I saw the moon standing in jubilation.
My childhood memory came to visit me when I was reciting my morning meditation.
“Oh!, I said, let me go meet a planet called Mars.”

What a life!
Where is Niel Armstrong?
He traveled to the sky; he was strong.
Where is...?
He did that.
Where is...?
He did this.

Beautiful and ephemeral.
Is life.
Live it today: it is your era.
Such is life!

Adamu Danjuma