Withering Poem by Satish Verma
Withering
One hazel moon
of November. I was thinking
of an iceberg.
*
The seared
shoots of grass. The path
covered by autumn leaves.
*
A weeping willow
lays down the branches
to embrace the river.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/26/2024 9:24:18 PM # 1.0.0.1119
