If I had wings

When I have wings
I’ll fly silently to a far-off place like a bird
crossing the rivers, mountains, and valleys
where no one can see or find me.

For a few days, people will talk about my sudden disappearance—where did he go? Where is he? How is he?
And, like clockwork, move on with their lives.

But I know you’ll fervently wait for my return.
In the wee hours, when opening the door,
you’ll find me sitting on the verandah
shrouded in a shawl, the same one you gave me last year.

I will fly unceasingly beyond the blue of the sky, the turquoise of the ocean, and the green of the grass.
And reach a place where neither time nor space can touch me.
And here, in this place, I’ll safe-keep my dreams,
not even time known to purloin, ransack, and pillage.

Here, I’ll sort through them like a record keeper—in solitude and silence.
When bored, I’ll sail with the clouds, glide across the paddy fields, and drift amongst the tulip flowers.
While passing through your house on a late autumn evening
I’ll peep through the window silently
through the branches of the Rangoon creeper tree
to watch you smile.

On a long winter night, or a lonesome noonday, or a brumous morning,
when you feel you have no one, nothing to hold on to, as it is sometimes,
remember me.
Remember me, and I promise I’ll be there.
You may not see me, but the wind will gently ruffle your hair. Or you may taste the salt of a faraway ocean, hear a bird skirr, or the leaves rustle and slide through the door’s crack, and you’ll know.

And before I leave, for I cannot stay long,
I’ll leave behind a posy of lavender tulips
which you loved so dearly all those years ago,
and perchance, even for a minute, for some minutes last eternities, I’ll see you smile.