Easel of a writer

[poddarku]

Easel of a writer

Move quill, there are few more
paragraphs to create.
A patch of lazy ray
Has high lightened the leaf.

Turquoise blue is his ink.
Always a swim in dream….
A few patches of it
on a hand whose life-line
is a winter-time creek.
Withered leaves float, silent.

The writer’s trembling grip
spills more than he takes in
every weary sips of
his balmy poison, drinks.
An old prescription lies
unattended, lonely.

This memoir may linger.
Unfinished. A yellow
bird on the window sill
tweets for a while then flies.
“I am joining. Don’t go
so soon.” Hallucinations
grows into the writing,
mist on the memoir.

{A lazy light has fallen over a piece of paper.
Who can say, this may be the history itself?
Or the making of it.}