I play my flute

a while before the end
the day I cried so much
I heard the train
a line on the horizon, sadly derailed

but then Pa stands at Chomsky's station
he welcomes us back into his world, because

safe with him, we were stored in paper, in tea
in tartan blankets, in a dove in full flight
crushed, immortalized, pressed against a window

I sometimes think about dad
jolly in the bells
of Hanshan's Cold Mountain goats
who stood still one day
when I began to see

why weep in this lonely, deep forest

I will be fine as long as I still can laugh

and I see Pa again
where the tall grass sings
when the little nest sways
in the vlei song's ways

and I play my flute
on the reed of my pa
with the Bokmakierie's call
and the sweet waterfall

🌿

In memory of Louis C Eksteen
20 October 1930–13 October 2001

🦋🌿

© Annora Eksteen, 2025