by Arun Gaur
From the side window
I can see a grove of bamboo trees.
When it drizzles, they shed their rust colors,
become green.
When it pours for days,
whorled twigs become quick and full and thin,
almost crisp,
and at their delicate ends,
leaves become razor-sharp and long.
In the night when I hear the howl,
tall and dusky shades
would scratch and knock my windowpanes,
lurching with the wind of the storm.
Ultimately,
they would succeed in touching me.
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Eclectica - Nov/Dec 2006
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