No sakura greets
where I live
except on one tree
inside the fence you’ve built.
They spin a myth
of a dedicated gardener
with whom you have signed
a contract, your blood as a seal.
This is the seasons’ intersection.
A balloon man sells something
for the dawn and for the late night.
The train went over the bridge
passes my dwelling, rattles the walls.
The yellowed books fall from the shelves
above the bed. Worms show their love
for the glue of old Soviet books.
“Not again.” You dream. “It’s Spring.” I say.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
Hi Kushal. I read this as if ‘sakura’ is a goblin (Irish ancestry I’m afraid) and enjoyed their spell bringing bookworms. I see it is actually blossom, so now I have 2 images. I am inside the room with you, looking along the shelves to see which of my old Soviet books you also have.
Comment by Tracey Chh on 9 March, 2024 at 7:10 am