Storms and Flamingoes

I find myself holding a little box
with which I can not part
its ruggedly hewn, but intricate,
carved on a little island named Zanzibar

There, mysteries are enfolded
in a labrynth of narrow crooked streets
Brass studded ancient doors remind me
that what was, is not now what I see

Behind those mighty doors
are dusty orphans playing, cobwebs, and disrepair
I remember that long ago illustrious Sultans
kept slaves, riches, and consorts there

Feel the heaviness, the aroma of cloves, and
cardammum, ocean, fresh fish, and coastal heat
Dhows grace the warm ocean currents
and take my mind to places I can sense but not repeat

I am standing on the tallest building in Zanzibar
overlooking the beautiful confusion of life below
Wind whips around me but I am at peace;
layered with dust and sweat, I'm enchanted still

My lungs filling with ocean air, and I remember
the little rugged box, still in my hands
Was it empty, was it old?
I wonder why I hadn't opened it yet.

I open the box. Nothing inside.
But suddenly gushing out come
beautiful, powerful storms from Africa
and fleeing pink flamingoes by the droves.

Years later this memory still brings excitement to my soul.
But only now, in this very moment, I realize:
Those storms and flamingoes are my stories,
and they must be told!

Copyright Cherie Teasdale 2009