Pace Of A Walking Baobab Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Blown out into a full barrel
of sap-churned and molded flesh,

a baobab tree always
does the somersault,
legs in silver space flipping out

toes of leaves from webbed
feet of branches
hanging in still sheets of air.

Cartwheeling baobab
in boots of thick creeping roots
standing on studs
of loam and sand holding tight

wiry fingers of roots
digging out love from earth's core,
where life begins and ends.

(ii)

How a baobab tree
spins gusts of dust to clothe
its bust standing firm

on the expanding bones and flesh
of a regolith winding
a clock to walk more slowly
to catch up with a slippery
path of beaded bearded history

trudging in marsh,
forgetfulness
drowned in its sludge,

thick woven balls of clay
spun into dough
in hands wriggling faster

than ticking whispering time,
when a late sunrise
cuts off the feet and wheels

factory workers streaming
in on snail legs,
while a cruising runner fails
to catch time by the tail
after a loss to the fastest sprinter,

all panting and choking
in shells of whirring excuses
slimmer than a rooted
baobab tree igniting its pace.