by Rekha Valliappan
I seek no shadowed earth, no moonstruck face when the yard is snowy full. When north winds waft over snake pits, silent as bats in flight one cave to the next, I wheel the acceleration, dig the bare bones of shoveled invigoration to final flare. I see no bloom transforming each blowing day, changing the mystery on display, pushing out the sealed
remains of encroachment shivering in my walled memories. When tree lights flake, they flicker. When ghost gifts pop upright, they navigate candles bright. I hear no claws, no spread of wings in flight, no swarms of squirrels fenced in loitering grates. I taste solitude, I nibble melancholy dished out in platefuls. On the boardwalk where winter dripping weak pools of sun struts in our northern stumpy-legged obliging darkness, I feel December snap, January pause to corpse, February vault the entombed space, veining renewed embryos–broken pieces of stars tearing up the earth.
About the Author:
Rekha Valliappan is an internationally published poet, writer, university lecturer and community-service practitioner. When she is not otherwise occupied, she is exploring nature and artwork in the places she has lived in India, Malaysia, USA and beyond for her writing. She is the author of multi-genre short stories and poetry in Litro Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The Sandy River Review, New World Writing, and elsewhere