Poetry

Which

Which In the hush between two thoughts, the word “which” lingers like a mist, a soft‑spun thread that pulls at the seams of every choice we have yet to make. It

Micro

Micro whispers in the quiet night, Tiny worlds unseen to naked sight. A drop of dew holds galaxies— Each bacterium a star, each spore a dream. In the lab’s hushed glow, the

Bulky

Bulky In the corner of the flat, a sofa sighs, its cushions swelling like a weekend tide, fabric stretched over springs that groan when a eager dog leaps up to claim his pride. A winter

Leggy

Leggy In the quiet garden where dew still clings, A shoot pushes up, slender and long, Its stems a whisper of jade, Leggy in their eager reach for sun. Like a dancer on

Aloof

In quiet corners of the mind, he stands, Aloof, as if wrapped in a woolen overcoat, His gaze drifting past the bustling market stalls, Where scones steam and tea is poured with care.

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