Roots
She needs to dig deep
to pull the roots
that grow under her feet
to do so requires strength
and a sharp shovel
the earth on which she stands
has hardened to stone
she waits for a miracle from sunrise
to sunset, but none appears—
her own shadow lengthens before
it merges into night
and so days and months pass,
seasons roll by—
she cannot see, but feels the tug
of the roots,
how entrenched they must be
to hold her
bound.
© 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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Wow, Neetu, Powerful imagery. Awesome poem.
Thank you so much, Veronica.