by Ankur Shrivastava

It was September: the equinox had
brokered peace between night and day;
around the world everyone took a pause.
Restless birds hovered over tropical flowers
cajoling them into pre-mature bloom.
Penguins stood still on the arctic, heads down,
silently grieving over egg-shaped snowballs.

Life again hung in a balance: your life.
Your steely resolve of eight decades
rested in a fragile body –
unresponsive, forgetful, rusty.
You asked if winter would be short-lived,
and they told you how much they loved you.
But you couldn’t recognize them,
and it didn’t seem to matter anyway,
so you closed your eyes and broke into a hymn.

1 thought on “Reconciliation

  1. A nice natural sense at the beginning. “The equinox had brokered peace between night and day:” a fine line. One can connect then with life hanging “in the balance” for the eighty-year-old. But then I’m not sure what happens. Does he or she die? And without recognition and it’s mattering, how can that moment become a “hymn” and “poetry?” How can “reconciliation” come about if it isn’t in the poem?

Leave a Reply