011426
cheers on you, dad
there's a sudden shift in this season
barely a summer but time reverts me back the same day
morning's fresh, the birds chirp
no...
the start of midday is calling onto something barely twenty fifteen
my novels
about those titles, about those manors and duchesses
Austenesque, probably around Keira and Hunger Games
eight grade, the odds are somehow in my favor
I was a sophomore
hey, I remember the day I drafted something called cute, amateurish sort
I was sweeping the school's frontyard
I saw grandpa biking around
memory flashes where grandpa sits on a rocking chair, in this moment of the morning strip
heart pangs, mind reels a mood too lucid
grandpa watches every passerby at his front yard
greets the man, be greeted by anyone who knew this man
and he knew almost everyone
traces origin of almost anyone
and I was sweeping with my broom at our frontyard
I remember Fridays
I remember Saturday afternoons
we gather 'round
to fulfill what's taught
then, it's somehow lost
could it ever be found?
Saturdays and two pms
where we could've had our siesta
morning's an irony to be somber
for me to recollect
why morning nearing in summer
reminds me of bliss
back when I had nothing
but a pen and a blank diary
telling myself goals that maybe I should wake up early
before the sun rises
that never happens
I used to bike around though
just like grandpa
these fleeting glimpses of a teenage picture
I remember, I saw and persisted at last
I know, I know this morning, I felt it last week
a decade later, it struck,
same old season
same morning of warm limpid hours
translucent midday, sun's out, my window renders a bird's busy cry
near the leaves of the coconut tree
near the branches of the mango tree
near the swinging bamboo twigs
here comes the roar of those chainsaws again
as if they never ran out of trees to cut
maybe by summer, they'll be burning down the mountain to a rut
soon gray ashes will be flying to our front yard
cheers on you, dad
making it past the sixty to a one
quite a morning to write this one
ah, here comes the bird singing that ten second melody
on repeat
twice
this morning, finally, tells me I don't have to rush
like college that felt like forgetting
I wish that would be cropped out of my timeline
and only perhaps retain the curated image of what I like
now, now, what good it'll be?
polished and perfect
distant and doesn't relate me
that'll make me less unhappy, perhaps?
the music's played by a neighbor
their radio's out loud calling me awake
just like grandpa
ha... men and their philosophy
but maybe it's the trace of him
like the fluttering shuttle of our windows
like the curtain drapes that sway past
when the wind sails and crosses by
like this image now
