The forest is Jasmin’s cathedral.
An earthenware compost bin is her Kaaba.
If she wants to gaze in wonder at a chandelier,
as opulent as the palace of Versailles,
she heads for a museum.
Jasmin breathes deeply and easily,
in a room free of needless things.
In her studio apartment
it feels like there’s acres to dance in.
Her mind floats where it wants to go,
with or without her body in tow.
Every file on Jasmin’s laptop
is as memorable as a prize winning novel.
In her trilogies,
schooners are life jackets,
for trade wind harnessing dragons.
Their sky roaming brethren
incinerate buccaneer rapists.
Jasmin replenishes her imagination
in the submarine valleys
of mangrove guarded lagoons.
Sleep is a temporary death.
She rises with an urge to write
unsurpassed by Shakespeare in chains.