Poetry Competition: Tal
It is the season of dew he thinks to himself.
The rich lock their doors and door bells hang to rest:
everyone is indoors.
But he watches the night turn
He watches the moon walk
It is the season of dew.
From a distance the dew approaches like a long lost life
Just when he is about to run away, the dew pats his purple untouched body,
“Hi lost friend”, it whispers: it is that season
The dew caresses the big fenced walls of the rich.
The door bells love this invisible touch:
the dew turns into small goose bumps all over the door bells:
they can’t resist the touch so they, they come.
Little droplets fall to the ground
The dew knows not when to stop
The tall built houses are no where to be seen
The clouds are melting to this touch
The trees that give him shade love the touch too:
So they, they come.
drop pop drop pop: The Dew knows not when to stop
But the street lights
They know better
So they stay wide awake with him
By Diane Musoni