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
-
Between sunset’s fiery streaks
slipping into the sea, and
the rising of the silver moon
is my twilight zone. -
I was leaning
by the window
standing outside
looking in— -
by the river
he looks lost
his face appears ancient
in rumination
under the sycamores’
embracing shade
thinks he might see
God -
your breath on my cheek,
as I hold you close to me,
silken infancy -
in a brief burst
of fiery red and gold
we burned….
