Morning Mist Poem by Satish Verma
Morning Mist
A complex question―
it was. Why your
hands were trembling?
The body becomes
a kayak. You were sailing
alone in the lake of bluebells.
Elegy and epilogue
become one. I have come
to meet my humming bird.
Still suspended in
deathless space, the sun
wants to hide.
The revelation
was not to solve the enigma,
but to listen to inside.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/9/2024 7:12:42 PM # 1.0.0.1119
