Behind Windshields

Satish Verma

Moving towards the east,
to meet the rising sun.
In wet eyes, I was receiving
your image, losing myself.

The pink doors of
deep cave, touch the flames
of yellow moon. I was surprised.
The night waits to depart.

It has rained all night,
at the pathless hurts. In sync
with the swaying of crab apple trees,
I unfurl my pains.

A milk shade spreads
between us, without breaking
the firmness of earth, where
we stand without looking at each other.

I stitch the undone
poem to bring you back, in
cottonwood arms, ready to fly away.