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.