Gardening with My Daughter
Sun rays erect a wall
behind us,
and on that canvas
I and my daughter
paint an orchard.
The bonsai town
sprawls around.
Our garden is the giant.
I have seeds on my palm.
Our voices explaining
soil and sun sink the traffic
of the toy cars left beyond
for this moment.
By The Pricking Of Our Thumbs
The peril, as miniscule as nothing,
came home, this one, the red brickwork,
and you carried it in
your intestine.
Grandfather, I know what it means
to know not to know, why the leaves
crack to dust at the slightest rubbing of fingers,
and ageing stops, dark darkens,
the howling wind shepherds the clouds away.
One shakes his head at those failing premonitions,
and at the success of the prickings of our thumbs.
In one phrase, I too, not know.
We live through the history, naive.
Our deaths mark pandemics.
Or war. "Choose your perils." No supreme being offers.
Bio -
An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, works as a journalist. He authored eight books and has been translated into eleven languages across the globe.
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Fevers of the Mind 