Poem: The Fool

The fool cocoons himself
letting the moulting decide his fate.

In the garden, others
clink their glasses and lightly
laugh with the wind.
Butterflies of different colors, they spar
their loftiness under the sun.
Temperament weather, it hovers
like a cautious calamity over everyone.

I know why I'm seeing this, why
I'm here, but I'm not with them
like the fool, oblivious, blessedly
a fool. Or probably it pained him
to learn how late it has been
to understand the atmosphere,
he weaves himself a veritable coffin
spun with strands of decisions
and indecisions, compacted
by sticky filaments of miscalculations -
big words, all his, genuinely
his, nobody else's.

I try nudging him to wake, tell
the iridiscent things i caught
from the flaps of their dresses
and coattails, but he doesn't slip
from the pattern of stars bursting
brightly in his dreams.

I know why I'm seeing this. I'm awake
and resolved to the fate of seeing
others rescued by what they have known.
Or probably it pains me more not having
another fool to be with, while around
the branches, nibbling the greens
and some little specks of sun,
my dream still crawls.