Kindred To The Cold
Goodbye, winter, I think,
as the wind whistles away the cold to make way for February.
The world, like always, seems to stride onward,
and I always seem to be paused -
wondering alone about the essence of time.
Even as the flowers bud into their blooming,
the question looming in the heart of my eyes asks: how long?
How long until they wither into memory?
Until transience turns its timely tricks, swallows the sunshine, and brings back the fog?
I log the seasons in the mirror, a truer lens than my eyes.
It tells me where the flowers bloom even on the greyest winter days, and where, even in the February sun, they wilt away into deadness.
Your gaze, the mirror says,
relentlessly reflecting me back to myself.
My golden/gutting gaze.
And as the mirror measures the measurer of time,
it finds that I tend flowers best when they bloom in my dreams,
and that I always miss the bitter winter,
as the sun strides steadily into spring.
About the poet:
Ujwalla Bhandari has felt in poetry ever since she can remember. She has been writing since the age of 10 to make sense of her world, and words have been her confidantes ever since then. She sees poetry as a language that captures depth and nuance with such magic, that it is able to evoke depth and nuance in its readers too. She is fascinated by the power of this resonance. Ujwalla works as a psychotherapist in Delhi, with the resonance of words at the heart of her practice. She writes, mostly for herself at @myriad.self.