Ordinary by Ibukun Adeeko

The whim of the wind in the wild
does not yield all it knows to a path.

The notes of songs linger on
the lips of floating leaves,

orchestra to the assonance of
the throttling wheel of the modern.

I am on the margin I think the light falls from
the sun. I see the woman picking

her nuts from the silent earth,
learning the time from the shadow.