In the Wake of by Hakuna Matata

Tiny raindrops lightly percussing still supple leaves…delicate contact resounding soft, tympanitic notes into the early, November morning…not an alarm, but a subdued call rousing the senses from sleepy submersion.

The faint and steady beat of wet molecules upon hearts too replete with chlorophyll increasingly illuminates irregularity, cultivating an internal shadow, invisible beneath the solid, gray blanket in the sky.

The smoldering taste and smell of resistance are palpable as the shadow recalls ignited bushes perched on wooden trunks like false prophets lining Christian Street.

“Whichever of the two occurs, be patient.” But patience is a tough pill to swallow in the midst of such a profane reality. Trying to grasp it all only seems to constrict the throat’s circumference, foreclosing the possibility of eventual digestion.

Returning mindful gaze to mostly greedy, green hearts, intently inspecting veins and other leafy anatomy with blinking windows, some margins and tips reveal deterioration, fading, translucence, yellow. Yet this minor concession offers no solace. The yellow is sinister, jaundiced, bubbling, oozing, and its unseasonable delay only evinces a malady with a challenging and uncertain prognosis, the weight of which feeds the shadow in a perverse photosynthesis of sorts.

Shutting the windows or burning down the house both seem enticing, except that the wet molecules continue to descend, whispering their quiet elegy. Bare skin conscripted as an instrumental surface for the liquid lament. Beads of moisture slowly accumulating around the eyes and the bridge of the nose, pooling, streaming, soothing, cleansing. A misty salve, perhaps, or, a momentary release. Either way, not necessarily providing relief, but rather, offering a definitive acknowledgement and a reminder to stay awake and proceed with caution.

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