by Rekha Valliappan
Once I had two wooers. One was an angled cow, the other was a spirited blackbird. The cow ruminated love letters to me with grassy metaphors, I never fully understood. The blackbird pecked my fingertips in polished pearls, fashioned from early morning dew drops, I did. At that moment in time I was a rudderless moon mariner on a frosty moon voyage. Of us four, one earthed, one skyed, one oceaned, one beamed from high. I heard strange noises then, one slow, the other quicker. The slow was a wave, that belched, the quicker a flute, that tweeted. Their tempo increased. The noises ordered me to lavender the blackbird till it prosed, and to dapple the cow, till it poemed. The noises were stringed. Together they harped. Together we silvered love note threads to the moon. The moon turned round and ruddy. The cow purpled in strokes. The blackbird dimpled in twiddles. Showered by moon manna we were covered in moon drops. Moon mantled to absorption by the gallant trio, I moon rosed from afar.
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