Poetry

Close

Close Not the shut of door or book, But the steam that ghosts your cup As you lean, just fraction, near While the kettle sighs its favour. Shoulders almost touching, slow Like two biscuits in a

Rayon

Rayon drapes in silken sigh, A spun‑light veil of humble dye, Born of wood and chemical grace, It whispers soft, yet leaves no trace. In every thread, the forest sighs— A modest cloth where nature

Whisk

In the quiet kitchen, steel curls and sings, A whisk of wire, a dancer’s rings. It twirls through cream, it lifts the white, Turning batter into morning light. Each loop a promise,

Gnash

Gnashing teeth in midnight’s hush, A restless jaw that won’t be hushed, Dreams of battle, fierce and raw, Where shadows gnash and spirits claw. Each bite a whisper, fierce yet frail, Against the

Birch

In the quiet glade the birch stands pale, Its silver bark a whispered tale, Against the sky a slender column, Rooted deep in earth’s soft loam. Leaves of green, like tiny coins, Tremble

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