Where the River Says Goodbye

At the base of the eighty-foot waterfall is

Where the river says goodbye

As canyoners trek through banana plantations of Tamaira

With tired limbs and dishevelled heads.

Petals of paradise open up to spew nectar to

hummingbirds

blue butterflies

As unsuspecting vines set a trap for tired feet

From slippery surfaces

bruised knees

quick rapids

They will soon return home

Because the river has said goodbye.

Sometimes

Sometimes I come rushing home in the rain

With loud thunder rumbling in the distance

And lightning that reminds me of the exotic tales of Maracaibo

Sometimes it is sunny and I walk with my eyes squinting in the sun 

A quiet smile plastered behind my black mask because Covid is still here

Sometimes when I get home, I am greeted at the door by 

An enthusiastic lover who always wants to seize the moment

Sometimes the wind blows gently and my cream-coloured curtains 

blush in the breeze, swaying slightly to the sound of the rattling leaves

Sometimes blue tanagers fly about on the window sill occupying the millet table 

While yellow macaws cackle loudly to announce that they are here. 

Either way, the skittish blue birds must fly away because the macaws are coming. 

They will return when they are not there.