Mist Fall On A Monday Morning... Poem by Uwakwe Uchechkwu

Mocking birds, flying by mocks her,
They taunt Lady Sky, jeering at her large toes.
The sky frowns at the silly jokes of the passing birds,
Hurt, she cries.
Her tears diverging and scattering into billions of orphaned mists.
The lamp stand above, in her habitual manner,
Tilts at the touchy cold palms of mists
Like a cyclone in space,
Faint are her auras; miles afar from the busy anthills
Faint are her auras; lying still at the serenade palms of the pawpaw trees.
The mists, I see, covers her (lamp stand) rough skin with their smokes;
Smokes from their weather chimneys,
And these pilgrim smokes tour the town
wearing cold suits.
Chilling the spines of the maiden trees,
They groom the windshields to their taste.
Sweeping o'er the dizzy faces of the village stream,
Waking her up,
Up to the flows of life,
They freeze the stream like no other freezer would do.
Except for the pigeons gliding for breakfast,
My aluminum canopy gets his morning bath before his owner's
And I,
I wriggle under the furs of my blanket
On being tormented by my alarm clock,
Beckoning on me
Like a mother would do
At the birth of every morning
To wake her beloved up for the day activities.
Her acquaintance time strolling on the blades of a wall clock
Is hung on the walls of mystery.
I slip beneath the fins of my diary to find solace in poetry
And words fly out like the sea hitting her breast against the skins of the sailors ship.