He comes and
sits on that
little nervous
tree
with no roots.
Last summer
the tree would
bear
fragile pink
paper flowers.
now it seems
bored.
He has little
humourous wings
that dance
as he croons
deep and adamant.
The firing hearth
next door
wafts up an
endearing smoke,
from a distant
memory
of a personal
place.
His uncertain
neck
pulsates to the
beat
of the hapless
city
around it,
Twisting and
turning
like a restless
baby's wrist.
The fresh henna
on her hand
smells a deep
orange,
finds voice in
him,
strikes roots in
the tree.
In an anchored
hour of
sunseived shade
the tree shivers
in the warm
afternoon breeze.
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