Modesty

In fever, I will
always see butterflies
landing on your nose.

White, yellow, black.
They come and go and I am
sitting under a cherry blossom tree.

Stroking you, cajoling you
to drop the wings.

In grass the sun waits
in a dew drop.

The moon was not a poor thing.
Will come in white robes
to preach.

Satish Verma