Don’t Tell Them
It was in April they met
when rain washed away
their loneliness
hand in hand they walk
in meadows sprouting
soft blades of grass,
young and lush
their love, tender as buds germinating
from dormant seed, throbbing
with promises they swear to keep
unaware yet of summer’s heat
or autumn’s last blaze,
no icicles to freeze
the flow in their veins
so it should be, better not tell them
what awaits.
© Neetu Malik
-
sultry afternoon
in the vast cornfields
reaping gold -
I wait eagerly
for absolute darkness
to lose my shadow -
I drop pebbles slowly
watch them fall
in a shallow stream -
she reaches out
touches fog
she had hoped
for the sun -
Walk me through
your caveshow me the petroglyphs
the stories
you have laboriously pecked on the walls
with your hammer stone,
carved in the light of a lantern
where shadows cast gloom.
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