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
@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
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