
spring has come
and gone
summer breeze nudges
dense foliage to dance
as before, splendor will
last for a while
this fertile forest
will thrive
change when it’s time
we will grow old
like the trees
our span shorter than most
what have we done
with the seed we once were–
what have we become?
© Neetu Malik

they said to remember crawdads
asked me to listen for their song
when my heart was heavy
and my sorrow dark
but I was young, too young
and memories clung to
bark and thistle left behind
now it’s time I know
to retrace my steps
into that forest
slowly, cautiously, though
eyes closed, feeling only
with my hands the way
I’ve walked before
my senses know better
than my eyes
travelled roads
I reach the backwater
past the labyrinthine path
pain and anguish in my heart
and hear at dusk
the crawdads’ song.
© Neetu Malik

the wolves are quiet tonight
deep silence
before that burst
of lightning
strikes again
illuminates
a desperately darkened
horizon that
holds its breath
like the wolves,
I know
it is better to keep
the howls
for nights when
thunder does not compete
© Neetu Malik

she bends
to the breeze
allows it to twist her bones
shape her arms
to shade and protect
as she tries hard
to lean towards the sun
to draw upon its warmth
and light
where to now
that she is bent
and has swayed
every which way the wind
has blown
rooted in hardened ground
she stands
weathered and stoic
no one asks if it matters
to her or
if she hurts
© Neetu Malik

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
so I make my offer
much to your outrage—
how dare I belittle the deity
I hold in my outstretched hand?
So precious I should fall at its feet
not negotiate over its head—
hush, you say, such sacrilege you
cannot tolerate
I must be reasonable, not violate
your sacred space
I stand resolute in your face
my offer is no disgrace to sanctity
only a question of profit, I buy
you sell
as God is my witness
it is truth I speak
perhaps, you the keeper of such value
alone know what it is
the sticker on the figure
is a matter of trade
I retreat, leave the idol on your shelf
but hear you call me back,
pull a wrapper and roll it around
the little figurehead,
for a nickel more than
I offered,
both accept.
© Neetu Malik
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