Ode to Abimbola (Poetry)

​But is it easy to

pick up the pen and fill empty pages

with words? Lots of words, each a single seed sowed

in the soul of the scribe. And whence might they emerge?

Might they, like grass, part the earth and stick out

their tongues to the skies in blatant mockery of god?

Or might they fall from those skies, as rain or as blessings,

dousing pages with knowledge? Bringing euphoria –

the beat is called, the dance is made: Happy Wet Day!

Or, still, they might choose rebellion: millions of protesters

surging forward, chanting crazedly, barging in!

They’re bold. They’re – you.

Abimbola,

these words are for you!

These little words…These seeds,

sowed in the soul of me.

You were that farmer; your love was the hoe.

Tirelessly, you worked. Tilling, clearing,

sowing…two years long…

Did you ever tire? Did your back ache

from bending for so long?

Did your hands, tender and nice,

soothing, healing as the balm of Gilead,

hurt and become bloodied, for the land was

too, too, hard? Too stubborn? Did you hiss?

Sweat? Groan? Why didn’t you stop?

 Abimbola,

The seeds have grown and now are

ripe for harvesting.

Allow them to build you a fortress, safe and secure

from this morbid black rider, cast a ward around it.

These little words…These seeds;

they are for you!

Abimbola!

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