In the valley
the rusted trees
the sea’s brass glint
to our east
where valved thunder
Did Spring relent her blossoming sending
hoarfrost late on unripened cherries?
Did she fertilize her stillborn bushels,
caramelize her green bulbs like lollipops
so bloom and harvest could become one garden
of unpicked crops and unrung peal of bells?
She did not lament with rainshower that month
the loss of a single orchard of my cherries,
only she must carry on her season
in abundance, with nothing left undone.
My tormented world.
Hindi blogger: Stories, Poems, Recipes, Psychology, Travelogue, Current Affairs
but not hip enough to have a better blog name
A little something for you.
Beautiful weeds that cannot hide from the farmer.
Lucidly in shadows. Poetry from a hand that writes misty.
Poetry straddling two millennia
Tales Don't Tell Themselves