Don’t Tell Them
It was in April they met
when rain washed away
their loneliness
hand in hand they walk
in meadows sprouting
soft blades of grass,
young and lush
their love, tender as buds germinating
from dormant seed, throbbing
with promises they swear to keep
unaware yet of summer’s heat
or autumn’s last blaze,
no icicles to freeze
the flow in their veins
so it should be, better not tell them
what awaits.
© Neetu Malik
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Neetu Malik’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived.
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Neetu Malik’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived.
-
tonight
the silk moon weaves me
into its silver streams -
don’t tell me how much
you love me, not now -
November draws me
into bleak arms
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