Poetry

Kavitalu. As a poet.

Dance

Picked up by the twirling wind, the fallen leaf dances once more. Once forsaken by the very tree it was loyal its whole life to, it still remains a thing of beauty, as will be the leaf that falls after it. For this wasn’t betrayal, it was a celebration of its life and an honor bestowed upon it, the honor to finally fly without pain. The leaf has known no other world til now, though it has dreamt of many, their tales carried by the sweet wind and visiting bees. It’s painted one of many colors, or many colors as one. Ever the graceful angel that blesses all it touches, it was time to give back to the earth that gifted it life. It wasn’t any longer tied down with threads of anger, nor with strings of sadness. The leaf has a full life lived well behind it, without regrets. It has made peace, and so it chose to dance as it accepted the soil as its resting place. Who teaches it this dance? Perhaps no one. Yet still, it has witnessed each quiver of its kind among every evening’s breeze, and perhaps, was fascinated by the elegance, itself like a child intrigued and drawn in by the gentle ripples across a fresh rain puddle. The leaf had mastered the art in its mind some time prior, and proved it to itself and the world when it displayed its poise well. With the genteel strokes of a painter’s brush, its swinging down teasing the Earth of the kiss yet to come, just out of reach, so near yet so far. Once it touched the ground, the leaf lay there to rest, content with the thrill and the memories it held. Yet, there was a hint in the air, and all its fellow companions were quivering in anticipation.

For where there is another breeze, there is one more dance. 🍂

Promising

When a tempest throws a curtain on the moonlight, and the cover threatens to blind me for all eternity, that will be the night that tests the calibre of my words and my choices. I had promised myself I will remember to shine. And on that fateful night of winding twists and unraveling secrets, it will not be my trust in my own remembering that shall smoothly deliver me to such a mind state, for my memory has failed me countless times before, but in my promises, for I have built myself, over the years, a character within which lies a penchant for the impossible, a thirst for the intrinsic, and a conscience for the very essence of the words I utter. Each drop of my promise is carefully squeezed into suspended glass jars, where it gathers with the many drops of all I have ever promised, each resting impatiently in a line in its own vessel, transparent for all to see and judge. Each added drop feels heavy, these jars forever weighing heavily on my mind, until the day I can rest with my hand on my heart and say with pride that I’ve kept a promise, after which the forever ends, the jar’s contents tip over back into the river far below, and a new era of relief begins. One of confidence, courage, and renewed sense of insight for when I find I must promise once again after all.

Indeed, that is promising. 🤞🏼