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I awoke
to a sprouting of spring—
will you pin it in my hair?
I wonder
as the starry white blossoms
flutter in the cool morning breeze
I know
that they will blush
to the touch of warm sunny days
still to come
They are
a promise of tomorrow
as it rises from winter’s long sleep.
© Neetu Malik
They have been sitting on the porch
in reclining chairs, an old couple,
watching the world go by
each evening the sun's shadows pass
over their faces revealing
nothing more than a few lines
of contentment
they never touch, their hands
always resting neatly on their laps,
or sometimes, they hold a glass of wine.
Passersby note with some surprise
how unmoved they are by changes
like when they widened roads
and built that new high-rise
right in front of their little row house,
dug out cherry trees and tall maples
that grew on both sides
but no one wants to ruffle sunshine
with questions—
they just wave and smile.
Today they sit as usual,
the last of the sun's rays flicker
grudgingly, a little hesitant, it seems
the woman extends her hand,
touches his
their eyes meet—
her hand still on his, a quiver
passes her lips,
she closes her eyes
as he covers her hand
with his.
© Neetu Malik
I will not count the seconds
I will not check the clock
I will listen only to the sound of
my own inhale and exhale and
the tapping of keys
watch my breath stir the strands
of my hair
as it falls below my chin
over this keyboard
my fingers
typing this note
to myself, this moment
a gift I give
to me
© Neetu Malik
You say life is not a poem
or a story—
I ask, “What is it then?”
“Real life”, you say.
Of course, you know best.
You spend your days
averaging
life’s losses, its gains,
calculating
how much time is left,
working out
logistics while you lie in bed.
Real life gives you pain,
brings a scowl to your face—
you add and subtract,
make no mistakes,
and I,
I just watch
the shadows twitch and yawn
on that wall
across the window
through which the moon
winks at me, sly-faced—
“I’ll be fine”, I say.
© Neetu Malik
I thought I could catch leaves
as they flurried down trees
where the summer sun
had painted them green just yesterday
when they were laden with
liquid imagination, suspended
from moist branches drenched
in dew
but seasons change
frost must replace droplets of dew
and I must let the leaves go
as they will
to follow their course
to be turned in the winter soil
of soft sorrow as they mourn
the passing of color and wait
in quietude for
a new beginning.
© Neetu Malik2 0 Read more
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More info →A Slice of Orange is an affiliate with some of the booksellers listed on this website, including Barnes & Nobel, Books A Million, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords. This means A Slice of Orange may earn a small advertising fee from sales made through the links used on this website. There are reminders of these affiliate links on the pages for individual books.
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