Nymph nodes

Nymph nodes

 Childhood has an attributed nostalgia
like ventilators that sustain life.

It’s like your wish to return
to the cellar towers
Where you watch,
the green of weeded walls.

The damp air
The dusk
and the rusty care taker
fill your breast,
While you watch
your shadow curve
in the lantern shade.

 I was a girl of eleven
with a cot of my own,
When fingers, thick and dark
spread on to my skin.
I lay bare, by the window cot
watching afternoon leaves
flutter shades and breeze.

It was a nameless tree, next to my broken fence,
marked as my floristic guardian angel
in the annals of my birth star logics.

Climbed on it, every other day my pores bled,
To paste its pulp in-between slices chiseled.

It stood straight, with a thousand limbs stretching.

I must have hugged and kissed its belly red.
For I feel,
I am cuddled within.


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