Fleuron
The
mallard watches the woods.
Dusk
falls every day, what escapes gravity!
But
in the falling, a juvenile, despite the autumn.
The
mallard, here, uncoils a ripple.
Brushes
shoulders with birdsong of pine warblers.
Faraway,
the calling of the alkonosts and the sirens.
The
mallard only watches the woods.
Temple
stairs
All
the way up, pleasing, my favourite gods.
A
dove hops along, light, sideways glance at my arching back.
What
she sees- I don’t see- I carry more than I can lose.
My
envy of the dove adds to the armageddon.
The
turmeric moon does little.
Snow
Dreams!
One with deep snow
another-
a deer skims the milky way..
To
mine, a translucent glow.
Now,
I must tap on oneirology
the
vast sheer white . . .
what
must have triggered it?
Plying
back and forth
anything
between
ambivalence
to fresh beginnings
frustration
to peace
the
snow theories beyond neurons.
Deep
snow turns dirty
a
cliff’s head atop an iceberg.
Freefall,
the closure.
Bio: Daya Bhat is from Bangalore, India. Apart from two books of poetry, her published works include free verse, Japanese short form poetry and short fiction.
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