An Ivory Badge
A silvery strand glistens among
her jet black tresses. Oh wait,
there's one more. She combs
frantically to unearth all rogues.
Phew! Just two.
In the mirror of her new old house,
she looks back on the past year.
All was well until it was not.
Firm ground pulled out from under,
she trembled like a subadult sparrow
surprised by the storm.
She stoops to sweep up the floor,
picks up the ebony locks. Of all the
fibers that fall daily, why not the…
It dawns on her: snowy strands
still stand strong.
Her first peek into adulting gifted her
this pearly pair. With pride she wears
them now. A sign of the hazy hills
she scaled to get here.
Reflections
On my couch I lie beside the bow window
as warm rays filter in from floor to ceiling
thru the four-by-five glass grid, coaxing
porch planters to cast their short shadow.
Across the street, on the right, pine trees
loom against the blue sky--clear, except
for a streak of white from a distant jet--
and a bald cypress breathes thru its knees.
On the left, catkins dangle from oak's bare
branches as they sway to a gentle breeze.
A jogger goes by; I wonder what she sees
from the other side. I hope it's just glare.
As I sit idly by, soaking in the majestic view,
my eyes retreat into a reverie…cut short
by a loud THUD!
Startled, I scamper to spot the source.
A hazy imprint of a winged friend on the
glass pane. Oh no, where did it go?
Much to my dismay--collapsed
atop the pot's soil, lies a small blue-gray
ball of feathers. White-ringed eyes close
to erase the impact, but the will to live
jolts them open. Bright orange crown
flickers like her heart. Tiny frame writhes while
I root for its recovery. Touch it not, warns the
interweb. We lie still, count heartbeats through
labored breaths on either side of the now
cursed glass. Minutes pass as eons, eyes
open--meet mine as if to reassure,
"I'm OK," and into the true azure
she soars off, leaving me to realize…
what a trap of reflections my picture window was.
Days later, a fine friend picks berries
off the planters. Before taking flight,
surely sees the stripes of bright white
drawn on the mirrored sky and trees.
My bow window--no longer
a visual tunnel to fly thru
while I revel in the view.
Latha Kottapalli is a software engineer who enjoys writing poetry in her free time. She grew up in Bangalore and other parts of South India. Since the fall of 2014, she has made Champaign, Illinois her home.
A silvery strand glistens among
her jet black tresses. Oh wait,
there's one more. She combs
frantically to unearth all rogues.
Phew! Just two.
In the mirror of her new old house,
she looks back on the past year.
All was well until it was not.
Firm ground pulled out from under,
she trembled like a subadult sparrow
surprised by the storm.
She stoops to sweep up the floor,
picks up the ebony locks. Of all the
fibers that fall daily, why not the…
It dawns on her: snowy strands
still stand strong.
Her first peek into adulting gifted her
this pearly pair. With pride she wears
them now. A sign of the hazy hills
she scaled to get here.
Reflections
On my couch I lie beside the bow window
as warm rays filter in from floor to ceiling
thru the four-by-five glass grid, coaxing
porch planters to cast their short shadow.
Across the street, on the right, pine trees
loom against the blue sky--clear, except
for a streak of white from a distant jet--
and a bald cypress breathes thru its knees.
On the left, catkins dangle from oak's bare
branches as they sway to a gentle breeze.
A jogger goes by; I wonder what she sees
from the other side. I hope it's just glare.
As I sit idly by, soaking in the majestic view,
my eyes retreat into a reverie…cut short
by a loud THUD!
Startled, I scamper to spot the source.
A hazy imprint of a winged friend on the
glass pane. Oh no, where did it go?
Much to my dismay--collapsed
atop the pot's soil, lies a small blue-gray
ball of feathers. White-ringed eyes close
to erase the impact, but the will to live
jolts them open. Bright orange crown
flickers like her heart. Tiny frame writhes while
I root for its recovery. Touch it not, warns the
interweb. We lie still, count heartbeats through
labored breaths on either side of the now
cursed glass. Minutes pass as eons, eyes
open--meet mine as if to reassure,
"I'm OK," and into the true azure
she soars off, leaving me to realize…
what a trap of reflections my picture window was.
Days later, a fine friend picks berries
off the planters. Before taking flight,
surely sees the stripes of bright white
drawn on the mirrored sky and trees.
My bow window--no longer
a visual tunnel to fly thru
while I revel in the view.
Latha Kottapalli is a software engineer who enjoys writing poetry in her free time. She grew up in Bangalore and other parts of South India. Since the fall of 2014, she has made Champaign, Illinois her home.