Poetry

A weeping willow was telling
a trove of memories,
for an ancient provenance
where the lake sleeps.

Why the sheen of water brings out
ephemerality of ‘if’. You want to
take a holy dip, never to come up again
in the throes of birth and death.

And waves, why they clap when they
are hooked up with the winds? Was it
to marry the sky? I am counting
the stars fallen to the street.

Back to the moon in skunk night
of slimming curves and opulent
nose for a ride in bed, sorting out
the remaining stones.


Satish Verma