Dark Pink Harvest

Peering through a picture window
I saw pastel-hued balloons dance in the air,
anchored to chairs built so low
uprooted children are ill-fitted there.
I gaze at you and me 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.
Seeping sambong in a screened porch
embraced by life-filling green
Alone I stare upon your raiment of dark pink torch
more lovely than I can ever imagine.