Treasure Island

Matete Motsoaledi

(05 September / Mpumalanga province)

Awe gust


The wind whirls
And stirs the dust
Leaving the grass with nothing to anchor

It is the august wind
That blows so viciously
After the winter’s chill
Has tormented the frail shrubs

It blows dust in my face
As if to spite me
For I can do nothing to stop it

But somewhere in me
I smile in defiance
Because I know
That the next season is spring

But unlike the august wind
I have no one to spite
I curse and praise nature at the same time
For the august wind
And the life that buds in spring

Through these episodes
I get exposed
As one with no might
I take whatever she throws
Even if I do not like it
I’m just grateful
That she doesn’t only frown
But smiles at times

Submitted: Saturday, November 19, 2011

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