A grandmother’s remembrances of last summer
Peering through a picture window
I saw pastel-hued balloons float in the air
anchored to chairs built so low
uprooted children are ill-fitted sitting there.
I gaze at you and I standing opposite ends of a rainbow.
I am writing history.
You are certain
in this country
there is a treasure of stories to know.
You finally understood why you had to go.
Sipping sambong in a screened porch
embraced by life-filling green,
alone I stare at your raiment of dark pink torch
more lovely than I can ever imagine.