I can't see these flowers though they are here. staring at me expectantly, to color them with my words. I tell them I am not the kind of poet who has time for frivolities. that I am dedicated to unearthing and burying grief. I shuffle my way through the fields hoping to find something jutting out in shiny sorrow or can be made one. this tree I see is remarkable. I am certain it will be more astonishing with a body the wind can play with. I begin to write: "& in its cruelty the tree snuffed life out of a boy. she ate his soul and fed it to her fruits. that all who chew her fruits will share in the boy's sorrow." I continue scribbling. the flowers tell me they have something to show me. they say I will love it. I don't respond. the scent of grief is strong here. or maybe I want it to be.
Michael Ayomide is fascinated by the power of words. He has come to discover the wholesome and destructive power of words. He hopes to share healing with his art, to resonate with his reader that they are not alone in whatever they are going through. He has been published in a number of online platforms and hopes to spread an even larger audience. He tweets @iamichaelayomid.