Clutched Petals Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In a garden
spinning
a windmill
of soft winds,
flowers
leave branches
and twigs

to fly
and creep
in a dense
interwoven
traffic,
their traffic
policeman,
anybody standing.

In a zephyr
flowing
with
the garden,
two clutched
petals land,
a flipped open
mobile tent,

on my hilly sleeve
to embark
on an uphill
journey, as they
creep on soft
brushing wheels
towards
my shoulder.

Tent flower,
how you
stick your petals
together,
as you float

on your
tight-lipped
wheels
to snail up
the slope
of my arm.

(ii)

Tent petals,
creep
on your
snail limbs,

counting
every inch
of your
uphill slowly
flowing
gaudy glow

paced to
move slower
than
a hundred-
eyed
chameleon

grabbing
every hue,
as it steers
itself
along its ride.

But tent flower,
you're no
chameleon,

but a silent
trim traveler
slowly
wheeling
yourself

up a street
on my
shirt sleeve,
the only
two-wheeler
on its
breezy lane.

Slam
On your
brakes,
O honk now,
tent flower,
for a stop,

as my arm
grows stiff
as rusty
stuck scissors.

But as I Stretch
out my arm,
I cut off
a street

for a tent flower's
passage,
as the clutched
petals fly off,
a gleaming
butterfly
melting into air.