Shoot it if it rhymes

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