In an intense, poignant, serene and soulful poem, Anumita explores waiting, with all its expectancies and hopes.
It’s Sunday and I wait,
will soon hear your footsteps.
it hurts after the fall.
As you skirt around me softly
and kneel down in pain.
It’s noon and I wait,
the church bells are ringing.
Can feel the winds pickup
announcing your presence to me.
Arms laden with blooms of purple hue
you will bring just for me.
It’s frigid and I wait,
it snowed throughout the night.
The snow scatters around you
as you brush them off my face.
Your hands covering every inch
and its warmth penetrates.
You talk and I wait,
the baritone of your voice.
you will so warmly narrate.
Will bask in the splendor of your story
blissful and glowing.
Seasons change and I wait,
the fallen leaves are dried now.
Your face has new lines
they deepen as your smile.
Wish to touch just one more time
tracing along the contours.
You will leave and I wait,
for the footsteps on the Sunday noon.
Your fingers pressed on my name
the cold slab of white marble.
Your tears soak into the earth
a promise to be together again.
Text and pix by author
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