6
Poetry
Aftermath
Aditi Mishra
In the aftermath of a storm
I find a blue handkerchief
hanging from a jasmine shrub
with hopes of being owned again.
It dances with dew-kissed bluebells
caressed by warm wind on clear days
and the white butterfly embroidered
in running stitch seems to waltz
like ballerinas slipping in streams,
sprouting wings of hopes dissolving
the fears of being outcast in a foreign land.
On tranquil cold nights it haunts me
as a ghostly shadow beyond my window,
a reminder of masquerading anxieties
as grey as my existence has become.
This place has a history of melting
melancholic melodies into tears
as an abandoned nest shivers,
wearied of the waiting years
and no traveller ever stays forever
in a heart that yearns to revive
this wilting vineyard with love.
Oh Aphrodite! This spring isn’t mine,
I’ve been longing for an autumn
that could touch my musings
with tendrils of blooming notes,
the butterfly dusts off charades
from embroidered white wings
and longs to reveal itself as a moth!