Eighty three years, three months and million whirls
Of earth she has allowed--- under her ageing toes
Struggling up the trail through the morning mist
clawing at the ground, she whispers:
‘ah, time to live like chickens in cages’!
The notes tremble in her throat,
Her inner voice takes over choric tones...
send nothing…neither logic
nor happy dreams….
Existence, at some point of time
She hastens up the path
Stands in front of her garden
Wonder of wonders…A BONFIRE
Burning, adjacent to her own garden
feeds her soul
She inhales the smoke of the
Rotten heaps of compost… and realizes
We all have our boundaries, distances to travel
At one point, the outside world comes
To sit at our fences
Ah, destiny is a picket fence
A porch for the old folks
To sit alone… and lament
Silence…absence means nothing!
Shared with Poets United: Verse-first-FENCE