White!

Some days my mind is not on writing, unfocussed

everywhere, maladroit, awkward with every word

like any truant child forced to do what she must

against her will and the will of the universe.

It’s not into page, paper, screen, longs for release;

vaults over every language, every verse and form

where white waters writhe on shorelines, far galaxies,

uncharted blazing white-hot stars throbbing in them.

Where the white dove sat on a fig once, intimate

the afternoon and small its wrap; she cooed her angst

and still it played out as a song, misconstrued yet

beautiful. Till the lightning unleashed white forked tongues

and lashed the branch on which she sat and it splintered.

She fell without a single sound, dead burnt white bird.