America. Morning, the skies have dandruff, the trees are draped in white lace, there must be a wedding somewhere. Dawn peers at falling leaves, anxieties dyed deep into trees, beehives in the woods, masquerades, moody deities, mourning the day’s war. The skies weep white chalk, trees, raging totems, gnash the teeth of wailing children, and gnarled limbs wag effete fists at weeping women. Across the gulf in the woods the trees stare at the car, glum. They know. The heart is packed and ready. They don’t like this leaving.
Grey is the restlessness of trees in the fall, breaking the waters of the birth of the coming leaves, victors of the nights of fading lives. Today is a portrait; lovely are the colors of fall draping the shoulders of trees. Brown gods mug for the speed camera. The skies have eyes. I love you. Do you believe the wind’s rush, do you? The trees, brown ancestors, hug me close. Far from you, wood-warmth gives me goosebumps.
America. Night. Ogun’s axe shreds trees. Sango roars thunder on electric cables drowning under felled green. The apocalypse murders great intentions. The trees lean on the road, limbs gnarled with need, pawing weary cars, leaves whispering, “Oga sah! Anything for the boys?” America. Under smirking trees, panhandling speed cameras brandish brown envelopes, weapons cooing at the impatient. The trees shield rage from the seer’s smirk. What is here has eaten the sweat of our rivers. And hope waves goodbye to the way it never was.
America. June 12. The road. Trees, green with envy, crouch, limbs cocked. Anxieties grit teeth in rage, hunting those who sold us mirages as bridges. Light races to life, and broken trees are mulch. Anxieties are dark roads, tree limbs, sentry glowering at lorries pregnant with someone’s dreams. Freak-clean highways etch sharp perspectives into post-card pretty skies. We marvel at the contrived beauty of force-planted trees. America. Trees, wise, mute, massed tight, leaf-green marble walls, racing dreams to the skies; arches, soothing vessels to mean salt-mines.
America. The sea calls. Wet waves, eyes of the salty mist, roar sweet thunder to fire. Trees lean on cars: “Pure water! Oga buy pure water!” In vain wet trees wring leaves dry. Under leaky canopies the rain sprays leaves on the foreheads of dancing cars. Spring is here, I think, the trees are naked little boys chanting lustily “Mama anatago! O yo yo!”
America. See the trees wearing a gele a minute, fallen gele on the dance floor brown odes to a wretched tailor. Dance with me, trees. Rituals rise, mumble curses and stumble over ablutions. Cuddle the morning. Roads carve catacombs into hills. Bored, trees loll, pride of lions. We are savages, we who nuke the world with unmanned drones and hypocrisy.
America. Morning. Rains drape trees in wet gloom-blankets. Glum lamp posts glare at autumn frog-marching the weary to winter’s chilly depths. And trees wipe brows with leaves. The sun streams through cold trees. Light races chills to winter. In the dying moon’s grin life lives on in the grief of the living departed. Did we not say this is not us?
America. Drop dead gorgeous day in my village. Windows frame the trees picture perfect. This is a day for the living. America took a shower at dawn. Squeaky clean trees shake wet auburn tresses and shower me with dew-drops. America is happy.
America. Pretty tonight. The trees, moody dominatrices of the ice storm lay out nightgowns and prepare to sleep. I’ll go lie down beside them. She who must be obeyed nags me out of dreams to fill hers.
America. Pretty in black. Shy trees peek out of Andy Warhol’s demons. Light races to life, broken trees mulch. Anxieties are dark roads, tree limbs, sentry glowering at lorries pregnant with someone’s dreams.
America. The seasons change. Always. Fall crouches in the trees, aching for falling brown leaves. The heart aches for you. Ink wears sleepy, moody trees. I wear you, road, like my favorite jeans, I know you, road. at the end of your dreams, she waits for me. Night has gone to bed with her issues. In this sun-soaked room, trees shield anxieties from life. And solitude is warmth for the weary.
America. Out in the mute woods, our trees are twerking, look at the spring in those moves. They must have had some last night. I am happy for them. Across the empty gulf in the woods the trees stare at the car, glum. They know. The heart is packed and ready. They don’t like this leaving.
America. Taking a walk through the little path to go see my mother’s people. Sleepy trees brush their teeth with chewing sticks. iPads in trees record our every move. By the water tap that spews only promises, trees clutch chewing sticks and gossip about their night. Dawn is sleepy. Lamp posts hold shy lights up to the moonlight. Trees hug sleepy skies. And homesick planes sail solo, fireflies roaming dark plains of exile. And you, did you sleep well?