Confessional

Rusted maple leaves
fallen on ice, from the
disgraced trees.
Spread like tiny palms of
sweet children―
ready for school.

I have come to teach
myself, the lessons
of nonviolence in moonlight―
washed promises.

Where lies the peanut
wisdom of man, crashed on
the cruel earth?

The refugee cult
grows out of the torn psyche.
So you believe in―
incarnation?

Satish Verma