She plays with shadows
twirling them with her fingers
making shapes she doesn’t
understand though
they are
but shadows, they dance–
she is too rapt in
their movements to realize
the choreography is in
her hands.
© Neetu Malik
It must have been
a stormy night
when love flew out the window
of my vacant room
like a feather
from a molting bird.
she gathers dreams that were
shattered in the last storm
fragments burnt and charred
when lightning struck, turned
an armful of hopes to ash—
she laces them into a willow hoop
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Oh, Neetu, this is so lovely! Made my hand movements more graceful.
🙂 Glad you think so, Veronica. Thank you.