Heavenly Harvest

The cloud clods, bashful, show
their slight openings for the seeds
of anything you may imagine,
and I whisper, “What do you see?”

Sometimes I make you feel
you have a constant therapist
paid by lifetime.

Where the heavenly plough
stills its day to give away
the time ahead to the waiting till
a spill of blood illuminates the evening,
frightens you as if this is
the first sun, and this is its pristine sunset;
you are the first life learning to replicate.

I have the voice of the fig leaves
and conscience.
I ask you to go back to your childhood,
visit the memory of the Big Bang.
You close your eyes, and the sky is gone.




Kushal Poddar
Photo Nick Victor


Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe


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