your breath on my cheek,
as I hold you close to me,
silken infancy
it was the breeze, or
maybe the brush of your touch,
long lost, yet with me
father holds my hand
between life and death, an ache
forged in memory
©Neetu Malik
Between sunset’s fiery streaks
slipping into the sea, and
the rising of the silver moon
is my twilight zone.
by the river
he looks lost
his face appears ancient
in rumination
under the sycamores’
embracing shade
thinks he might see
God
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