Sunday Poem By Mitali Chakravarty

Restless Stirrings

Who painted the sky with a smear of gold?
Who with fire covered calm clouds,
the morning filled with trills and chirps?

Lost in placid pale pink, what does the sky
think? Does it meditate to sprinkle serenades
sparkling crescendos across seas

from whipping winds? Or do parakeets’
pandemoniums amidst the gold-topped
angsana trees affect its ruminations?

Does the hand that created these make
death a possibility? Or is life a
renewal of dry leaves that perennially

fly adrift to give way to new hope, strong,
sturdy limbs to home the eternal soul? Does
the Earth mourn each time a leaf crumbles?