Habitat of a less difficult time

Skull of a storm

The sycamores grow large; shrink again;

waiting in a mesmerizing storm;

you appear, a shimmering image

encrypted in the strong wind. I close

my eyes to find the boyish visit

once paid to the storm island. Howling.

Everyone had blown apart, scattered

searching the others; petals, pieces

of a garment, no one was in that;

vagueness, opaque wind, my young hand

slipping away from my father’s grip;

everyone had blown apart, scattered.

I had stumbled. The sand’s erosion

was leaving the earth bare and I found

a skull I had lost the year before,

on the last trip here. A yellowed skull

=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)

Habitat of the less difficult time

From there you can see the kiss of green

melts; sun and the leftover dewdrops

in a come-hither mood, squirrels do

their day job with a keenness akin

to your attention. Roll the wheelchair.

The expired parking tickets scatter

in an invalid gesture. From there

you can see the brown hawk in pursuit

of its natural habitat. Lost.

The crows cry at it from a distance.

From there you can feel that you have your

own fear of flight but still flying is

only way you can search habitat.

Hence an empty wheelchair remains there.

=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)