Oceanic Art

Satish Verma

A silent vigil was on, 
for sun, which was getting 
ready, to pass on the baton, 
to sleeping moon in a winter storm.

In frigid cold, I walk in 
snow to cut the greens. 
Needles poke my arms to taste 
the blood of a kiss. 

The ironic curl, moves 
a sin. Won't you celebrate 
the white death with me? 
I ask this question to myself. 

A kingfisher dives in a 
desert stream, for a spiritual kill.