Musing

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I wait for those biting days touched red
by the sun's inconsequence,
wasting leaves mingled
with rice straw,
the smell of decay in earth
overturned for planting -
not these rain-sodden days,
grass gangling with desertion,
openings of the modest mimosa
and the ground cherries sagging
from heavy water.
I see myself submerged
with the charm of the rain.
Face ruddy with labour,
each day granted purpose
by a calendar now drifting in time.
Even sluggishness
somehow sanctified -
the wish
of late-night laziness enflamed
by tea on the terrace
and the cool air
against my face.
For now, I sit inside,
a novel manuscript about aswangs
lying idle in my lap,
and listen to the gust of rain
on the leaves.  At times
I rise from the chair
beside the window,
force myself
to walk the mongrels
even though it's wet.
Tomorrow maybe
if the sun dries out the water
on the terrace, I will sit
outside and observe the last
of the sparrows,
the whirr of their wings
obscuring the austerity of the day.