By Arik Mitra
I see fragments of sky -- between
branches,
Of dancing Ashwath leaves.
Not a sound --
merely ruffled flowers
On cobblestones, lying. The tree
quietly nods in shared musing.
Stand
blackish shadows under
the leaves; they toss
facing the streetlamp glow.
Bright white light -- intense
luminescence, leaves nothing
to inner imagined forms. The sky
baked in absent light.
*
Arik Mitra lives in Kolkata, India. An IT professional, he has been writing for about two years now. He writes mainly short stories and poetry in English and Bengali (mother tongue). His work has been published by Clarendon House Publications, Red Penguin Books, Dyst Journal and more.
*