The Tree Between Harmattan And Rain Poem by HAZEEM OLADIPUPO OLUWATOBI KAZEEM

In Harmattan, the tree stands thin and quiet,
wearing dust like an old, borrowed robe.
The wind bites its leaves into whispers,
the sky cries but no tears.


A cracked mirror of hunger is the earth,
and waiting becomes a daily prayer.
Its branches scratch the pale, tired heavens,
asking questions the sun refuses to answer.


It keeps its roots in stubborn faith,
yet the tree does not walk away.
Drinking memories of rain
from the dark, patient womb of the soil.

Drumming on zinc roofs and restless hearts,
then the rain returns like a long lost mother.
The tree speaks again in green language,
stretching its arms to touch the falling sky.


Birds carve laughter on its shoulders,
new leaves write songs in sunlight.
Children sleep beneath its shade,
as if pain was only a rumor.