The Words I Will Speak

Childhood Estate

I can well remember
The bright flowers that bloomed
In the generous beds of the estate.

The wild grass sprouting from their stocks
The nourishing grain
That in the season of falling leaves would be whittled down.

The cacophonous warbling
Of the gaudy feathered fowls,
In the corral summer-tide empyrean.

My mother's sotto voce
As she wound my mahogany tresses
Into intricate coiffures atop my scalpel.

My father's warm hand atop mine
As they lay against the soft side of the stead
Moving the brush in intricate patterns on its side.

The motion of the gallop
As the horse's hooves collided with the soft soil
Of the forest floor and the river bed.

The warmth of the pearly sand
As I dung my toes into the softness Of the silver lake's beaches.

The smell of the cooking pots Filled with steaming Chicken broths That mother was boiling noodles in.

The red bleeding between cotton Sailing through the darkening sky Like great four mast sail ships of past days.

Watching the first diamonds appear In the spherical abyss above As father draped thick woven wool across my shoulders.

The coolness of the silk sheets As I slipped in between them Fatigue engulfing me wholly.