The Common Ash

The  Common  Ash

The  care  of  a  harsh  nurse  ill-suits  you.

At  her  first  loud  slaps,

you  wept  flaming  tears.

Then  the  Sun  closed  his  fists.

No  golden  fingers  curled

around  your  empty  brown  ones.

Your  limbs

grew  grey  as  age.

No  finches  lingered.

Alone 

you  stood,

clutching  at  wisps  of  shadow;

donning  a  shroud

to  mourn  the  season's  denial.

Your  heart  sank

to  your feet;

the  earth  swallowed  it,

and  then  clamped 

her  white  teeth

shut.

Cloistered

within

this  close - mouthed  earth,

you  are  its  deep  thought,

its  communion

with  eternity.

Soon,

the  finches  will  come,

bright as medals.

The Sun

will  unfold  his  arms

to  hold you.

For  it  is  you

who  is  to  occasion  the  earth-song

we  call

Spring.

- Skendha Singh