Foreboding
she reaches out
touches fog
she had hoped
for the sun
to slip its silky warmth
over her cold skin
withered and splitting
like the bark of a tree
not used to early frost
summer has not yet
run its course, she whispers
as she exhales a misty breath
it is too soon for woodpeckers
in the woods, the air is dense
besides a lone goldfinch
she might be the only witness
to the end
© Neetu Malik
Some of Neetu’s Books
-
I see you will haggle over your wares
sell them to me for the price I ask
I know you have many gods
little and large, in stock -
first snow
flakes of a poem
fall on my page -
Shall we dip our brush
in the deep blue dusk
so we may paint joy
we stole from
the passing day
before it grows dark? -
all I hear is this song…
carried to my ears upon waves
as they ebb and return
a symphony of love
played on instruments
of the heart— -
sultry afternoon
in the vast cornfields
reaping gold
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Exquisite, as always!
That is very kind of you to say, Veronica. Thank you so much.