Soliloquy

The sun comes out from beyond, scratches itself a bit and extends its warmth & glory to the multitude. And with this, finally, a moving finger writes. To live spherically in many directions, as Frances Mayes says.
And so you wake, amongst the four walls that protects you, the dreamer. Thoughts of the green monsters under your bed melting in the light. You've had nightmares. You live to see another day on the land you were born, where you loved, you lost, you won, you wept. You learned to walk, to laugh like a Kookabura, to return to that childish innocence that you so believe in. To believe that you'll be alright. And when early one morning you hear a peacock sing for the first time, you don't realise that you have learned to smile again. You are breathing.
These days, you are something of a loner. Between the pages of a Buddhist monastery, you think of lands far away. Of colours that are new. And just like that one day, between sips of Hazelnut latte, he quietly slides in, to put his hand on your shoulder. Those warm eyes.
Where have you been, dear old poet?
Where have you been, Czeslaw Milosz?

In Black despair
In grayish doubt and black despair,
I drafted hymns to the earth and the air,
pretending to joy, although I lacked it.
The age had made lament redundant.
So here's the question --
who can answer it --
Was he a brave man or a hypocrite?

The words go round and round your head, like you are tasting a fine new wine, your taste buds testing its youth and fragrance. All your senses absorbed in one task. No, not getting drunk. Your eyelids close for one brief instant.
All things go on, just as they used to.