/ Poetry /
I sweep the yesterday's leaves
but a sense of its silence
wisps out a scroll,
that rises like a bubble
and bursts into the void.
The blades of spartina,
I cut and stash, which,
though not as sharp
and hard as my sickle,
prick me at least late than never,
that they were the feather bedded plumes
spread for the butterflies
to pollinate those stamen-pistil dreams
hidden under every living color
that flits around the rift I created
stalking my conscience.
The naked bull-white eggs,
that break down on my hardened pan,
are another phenomena
that become the yoke,
bearing my day on its actin cells
and I wonder how they roll me off
like on the wheels of a bullock cart
into another day.
I realise how, many a time,
I missed the highness of these things,
how from down to the earth
their naked beginnings do end in smoke,
but of something my clothed body
is too busy to understand today.