Thinking Off Poem by Satish Verma
Thinking Off
The clouds hang on the strings.
I cannot dry my eyes.
Picking up the pine cones, on grass―
one by one, as the years went by.
How did I lose my home again?
Were there not footprints in snow?
The caladiums, you planted in
summer, had the crimsoned spots.
Like the kirmizi sun
dipping in lake one night.
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: life
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4/17/2024 7:32:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
