by Preeth Ganapathy


I remember my handwriting
As a child, the letters spilling in the space
Between my mother’s fingers
Poised over mine and the
Paper. I remember drawing
Grapes, five small circles in the first row,
Four in the second and so on,
Till there was just one
On the last row, all the while tasting
The sweetness of purple hidden in
Instructions. So many years
Later, the ear has grown tired
Of listening to the monotone chatter of keys,
The fingers have forgotten the feel of parchment
And the nose no longer licks the perfume of fresh
Ink. Until, one day, I pick up a rusty fountain pen,
When a fresh paper lands on my desk
Like a lost feather.
I begin by drawing the dash of a t,
Rejoice in the curves
Of an m and slide down an s. Words paper over the touch
Of now and the mind quietens
Like a still river, the scent of yesterday
Wafts in, veils the seconds between the present
And a calligraphic past.


Peregrinations of a lone white feather

A wisp
almost as pale as a second thought,
flutters through this July afternoon —

Its whiteness, stark, against the grass carpet,
balances on the tip of winds
like a soap-bubble at the edge of touch.

Unencumbered by lightness,
it traverses the distance meant
to be traveled,
glossing over the hours of quiet
that garland
this green afternoon.


Photo by _fg75 via Pexels