Clouds have been frowning for long, the world
won’t read the sky, but preen her wilted wealth—
a peacock on a perch chirps change.
Change calls in summer: winter sneaks in blizzards,
sneezes and coughs and galloping temperatures;
no walls, but flopped fences and eroded dunes.
Parks back off from bubbling, beaches from gaiety.
Streets sigh for footfalls, for lovebirds, for wailers.
Blaring automobiles and shrieking airplanes cease.
The sun is on a slow stroll—no floating grit above
rooftops. What a jubilee for factory stacks
that belch from bloated tummies and choke the air against
their will, turn green plains grey, rivers murky.
The world has seen enough of summer; time to tan
in winter and reset the radar. Maybe decolorize all
shades of colors before globalizing the globe!
Maybe spring-clean before calling up summer from coma;
before we begin the mass destruction.
On fours or twos, carnal beings are carnivores;
in the wild or towers, crude greed rules—but
for the Corona flying a victory flag!
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
04 April, 2020
Echoes Of Heaven 