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poetry comes to me in little drops –

timid raindrops that wrinkle or split

before they hit the ground.

 

words swelling within my heart – threatening to

burst throbbing walls –

shrink as their toes touch the virginal white.

an imperfect hailstone in a summer storm –

nothing like the grand spectacle

of Frost’s park filled up with snow –

 

my poetry is not a fire that can light up a revolution –

it is a firefly – tentative – fleeting through minutes.

 

I ask the clouds journeying to distant cities –

was I not born to write poetry?

 

I was born as the earth –

and sky –

 

no, I was a mango seed in the

earth’s heart – to grow – to give –

to give always – to give unasked

and remain grateful for

the giving.

 

my silences touched tomorrow and

came back puzzled –

my words had been orphaned by the ages –

wrinkled – split – ephemera ageless.

 

but the mango seedling stood tall

growing –

giving unasked – giving all.

 

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