Wednesday, October 22, 2014

In my garden 

Within the petals of my pain 
lies a dewdrop that glistens to your light. 

The petal, its veins, its barely-there fibres, 
the oyster-white walls 
that breathe tender, baby-breath life – 
lie in wait quietly for the pink pulse 
of that precious, curving finger-tip. 

Moments, seconds, minutes, centuries rise 
and ebb gently; patiently 
as the rock that wears away for the wave 
that never comes. 

Time and tide cut hollows, hone crests, 
fill crescents as rain feeds the moss. 

Within the seeds of my pain, you lie 
as a lost heartbeat within a golden grain. 
Washed by the rains, but never washed enough 
to soak in the breath of life. 

I write in the sand, again and again, 
my dry words that drink in 
the salt 
to fill their wounds.

Photograph courtesy Nishant Shankar

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