A new poem!

A Falling

A thud and a
Yellowy presence.
Before that
It was the gentle wave and weight of the wind
That brought you.

We are not talking gold here:
Liquid yet self-assured and tough
Tactile and malleable
Restless, rust-less, regal,
Forever found, never lost.

My Sister, it’s about yellow.
Modest, organic,
Soft as the music that played
The morning they wheeled out our mother’s
We-dare-not-mention.

Yellow, my Brother, is a farewell.
It’s what gets left
When the greening is gone,
And before the crystal white, the copious brown, and
The grim grey of our
Putrefaction.

– by Ama Ata Aidoo (Lashibi, 11/12/2015)