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
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