by Prasanta Verma
Leaf beautifully curling upward
Cupping droplets on its skin
I take my finger, wipe the drop.
Leave a skirmish behind
The red autumn leaf, a heart
Turned toward heaven
Singing in its death—I wonder,
Leaf, how many songs have you sung?
I wrap myself in a coat of leaves
Stand under a sheltering tree
Sing with the wind
Go to the one who sings over me
Cup my hands, raise them—empty
Here they are, here I am
Am I to be like that last leaf,
Stuck on the tree, alone?
And I am answered,
You are connected to the vine
Water spills over my hands,
Overflows, slips through my fingers.
Prasanta Verma is a freelance writer, poet, and artist. Prasanta was born under an Asian sun, raised in the Appalachian foothills in the southern U.S., and now lives in the Midwest. She has been published in Relief Journal, Barren Magazine, Exhale Journal, Silver Birch Press, (in)courage, and Tweetspeak Poetry.
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