Her Poetry.

Published February 20, 2015 by Shreya Rajvanshi

Inside the small, purple room,
Under the warmth of the
Yellow light,
I feel a slight tingling on my
Forehead, as she kisses it
With delight.
She holds my hand, and rubs
My fingers, touching my palm,
Tracing the lines,
Her eyes blink slowly, scared to miss
The minute pores on my face,
Her tears brightly shine.
Her lips form her own words,
So ancient, so new,
Like undiscovered desires.
She tells me the stories
She has lived in, the poems
She has written with ice and fire.
Holding my hand, she says
She wants me to give
Her story, a new cover.
And she continues reciting
Her beautiful poetry,
My grandmother.


60 comments on “Her Poetry.

  • Beautiful. Your grandmother has had a long and very interesting life. I feel as if she is telling you stories from her past and in return, you will experience your own stories. Your own poems. Your own little Haiku’s.

    • This made me smile. Yes, she has had a very eventful life. She keeps me on telling me about her childhood, when she met grandpa, how they were together for 54 years and how she has grown with each passing day, and I can never grow tired of listening to them.

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