Molting Bird
It must have been
a stormy night
when love flew out the window
of my vacant room
like a feather
from a molting bird.
Strange that I cannot remember
thunder or wind—
no howling or moaning,
no crashing at all
just the lightness of my plumage
and a silence
knowing a fine new feather
shall take its place.
© Neetu Malik
Some of Neetu’s Books
-
Enveloped in twilight mist
they are known only to him -
Until I can fly . . . as the sun goes down
and waves come closer
with the rising tide -
life spills . . .
forming red rivulets in sand
in the vast desert
man’s fury against man
reasons I do not understand -
spring has come
and gone
summer breeze nudges
dense foliage to dance -
they said to remember crawdads
asked me to listen for their song
when my heart was heavy
and my sorrow dark
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