STONING

A weeping willow was telling 
a trove of memories, 
for an ancient provenance 
where the lake sleeps. 

Why the sheen of water brings out 
ephemerality of ‘if’. You want to 
take a holy dip, never to come up again 
in the throes of birth and death. 

And waves, why they clap when they 
are hooked up with the winds? Was it 
to marry the sky? I am counting 
the stars fallen to the street. 

Back to the moon in skunk night 
of slimming curves and opulent 
nose for a ride in bed, sorting out 
the remaining stones.

Satish Verma