Molting Bird
It must have been
a stormy night
when love flew out the window
of my vacant room
like a feather
from a molting bird.
Strange that I cannot remember
thunder or wind—
no howling or moaning,
no crashing at all
just the lightness of my plumage
and a silence
knowing a fine new feather
shall take its place.
© Neetu Malik
she gathers dreams that were
shattered in the last storm
fragments burnt and charred
when lightning struck, turned
an armful of hopes to ash—
she laces them into a willow hoop
torrential rain doused the fire;
shards and broken bits remained—
she spread them upon fine muslin
woven with fibers she had spun
on the wheel of an aching heart
until the storm passed and the sun
stretched out its golden arms
to weave those dreams back together
into different shapes
draped in morning dew
they shone again.
© Neetu Malik
wetting my feet
in the old pond
I pause to remember
how it felt
back when the feet
were young and free
but memories wrinkle
and my skin is worn and coarse
to feel the same things
the water in this pond
too murky
to bring back
the clarity of fresh water lilies
and unclouded hopes
(c) Neetu Malik
how many steps
to the edge of the world
she wants to know
small feet press on
each foot forward
taking her closer to
destination unknown
undeterred, unwavering
asking the same question
though she knows
I have no answer
though I am
mother
© Neetu Malik
we were wingless
until we knew love
our breathless breath
lifted us
into rainbows
eagle-like we soared
fearless and bold
flapping newfound wings
feathers soft as gossamer
and it was then
we understood
the lightness of being
©Neetu Malik
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