In Mazoe street’s sedate mornings
I anticipate Nodumo’s ease and radiance
to debouch from the narrow street
like the sun awaking
from night’s sleepy blanketing clouds
and prey on my expectation
ever caught over expecting
to be trapped in the wonder
of her momentous glow
and luminous air,
before half my breath inhales
acknowledgements of her graces
she drifts like a river
rushing to fulfill schedules at sea
and the purple of jacarandas’ bloom
remains to vainly fill the emptiness
of the stretching street
and scarcely flowers in my heart
already longing for another morning