Blackest Mood

Satish Verma

the firm grass― 
will start a fire. I was trying 
to find my path in smoke. 

On fingertips, was at stake, 
the creek's departure. 
I would wear a mask 
hiding my emotions. 

We will wait for the spring. 
There was still a mound of snow 
at the door. 

The rape of the moon 
was not in cards. We were ready 
to sit in moonlight, reading 
our hands. 

Philosophy of death 
has many questions. Religion 
of birth has many answers.