Dark green arrows pierce each drop
Of glistening snow that remains still,
Suspended over dark brown branches
Prickly and barren;
Each bud awaits
The poet's soft breath
To tickle it into being;
A shining, glorious day awaits
And bends those top-heavy branches
It will be beautiful
What could she have thought
When she scraped the bark, brown and deep,
Engraved with names of ancient lovers,
Witness to her 'crime'?
The suspended drops finally fell,
Disturbed from their rest
Of systematic natural slaughter,
They glistened on her face,
Lighting it,
Revealing the unshed glory of her terror;
she tasted them:
They tasted of joy,
And of goodbye,
Mingling with her blood again–
given for what she used to call love;
A crumpled scarf and a tattered body
now rejoin the melting snow,
Dying it scarlet
© Geetakshi Arora
March 25, 2014
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