Sunday, February 6, 2011

OxyMoron











No Rhododendron in Winter

Only steep paths onward

Like mother's blood-beds

A snowy red as if encrusted

The bag sits pretty

We are getting on

Walking on eye-bags

We will soon be greeted

With the hairy stool-cliff



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1 comment:

Amrita Dhar said...

i read your poems but i can never find words or something to comment, to reflect or to tell you what it felt like. its like silence ...

February 8, 2011 at 6:16 AM

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