That tree by the window grew
a blue leaf last night. The bluebird
sang on its branches, a phantom's
song that hung a blue mist around the sun.
The HDB blocks, flecked blue, white & blue
in the last general elections of residents
votes. Out of town, I missed my ballot.
These days, rain's ballads keep me going
beneath tin walkways painted blue, color
of peace disturbed at night by boys at playground.
They frustrate the bluebird in her sleep.
This is why she sang no more - until one
night, fearful of shadows, she burst into
song, a vocal flower in sudden bloom.
She moved into my chest this morning,
found birdseed & an old, low fire to
keep her going. I hear her sing in times
when the draught of days turns my nose blue,
when the public drift like leaves outcast
from trees of life, of being, dying infinite
deaths by their bowed heads & light
from tunneled screens.
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