Poetry

Writing on sleeves
to remember your departure
and becoming a stray cloud.

The maternal touch
of the sky, you can sleep whole life
on dense logics.

White sheets were burning
unannounced in the home.
I lost the key, to open the door.

All I wanted to tell you
about, selling the roses.
Thorns must not go free.

The snake was shedding the skin,
time to hone on whetstone.
The tender loaf was ready.


Satish Verma