Privacy Of Closed Things Poem by Pragya Verma

This poem is about privacy of night
About wet woods trying to burn

About flowers that close in
With all of their primitive instincts

About drooping leaves
With twinkling dewdrops hanging from the tip
Waiting to fall off and be lost
In the infinite oblivion

About dark, suckling hungry shadow
That extinguishes even the tiniest
Sliver of light

This poem, fears not the furious winter rage
Or the hint of blood at horizon

Its unseen and obscure and deep and mystifying
And it is these unwritten oracular words
That I carry.