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
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
giving unasked – giving all.