She wraps her child
in the old, soft mantle
though the child is
grown into a woman
she has raised
with gentle hands
and tender affection
her daughter shivers
as chill pierces through
holes in the aged fabric
a mother’s excuses
no longer explain
how they came to be
in the first place
through the tight weave
that could never rip.
© Neetu Malik
a nip in the air
swirling to my feet
one blushing leaf
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.
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