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
-
She wraps her child
in the old, soft mantle -
soft murmurs in the dark
don’t enlighten me
they leave me fumbling
for something real to grasp -
The marbles roll
on a patch of dirt–
colored transparencies
shine in the afternoon sun. -
I carve a piece of blue sky
for the dark days ahead -
ong shadows
the afternoon s t r e t c h e s us
on the sidewalks
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