Photo by Tara Sanyal Goswami

CRUMBS
 
Old ghosts wave at you
They want more, more.
You face them
So they would run
But they still stand, hands on hips,
Waiting to spring a surprise.
 
Turn your back at them
They are at your heels.
Quietly leave your shadow
For them to devour.
Winter down the middle lane
 
Like an old trickster
Who leaves the cops with crumbs,
Far behind, happy with
The sorry shadows
In their palms.
 
 
INJURED BARK
 
Good bark must hold up sky
Branches must hold their own
Against wind and rough dream.
Its roots must sink deep into sea
 
Now, limbs have grown
Spine- broken, but awake,
Tendrils, tendons that shape a breath
Nothing is perfect, will never be
 
Just like sky, blue one day, red the next.
Or the sea - tallow and yet the ache of distance
Keep going, one day, they will find in your tender bark,
A home for the birds