There is a certain sound of falling dry leaves
That whispers in your ear in the morning when you wake up.
That crisp, crackling sound that you hear when
The oak tree sheds its teary leaves.
There is a certain kind of brightness that hits you on
A bright wintry morning.
It peeps through the window like an invited guest
Who is shy to get in.
When you open your eyes and look at it,
It is full of such shimmer and
Comforting warmth.
It cuts through the room like a cheese slicer.
And yet you still feel cold.
And yet you feel like a little lamb,
Born in captivity.
When you open your eyes all you see
Is the icy coldness of this room…
Painted white.
You don’t know why,
But all you hear are your own bleating thoughts.
They cry like that little lamb…
Nothing like Mary’s lamb.
And yet in all fairness,
So full of life.
Full of hope.
Full of sunshine and the desire to see another day.
So you go on and hope.
And you hope.
And…
You hope.
Frank Malaba © 2012
Frank Malaba Prosetry 