Poetry

After

After the rain has slipped away, the streets glisten like old silver coins, and children’s laughter drifts on breezy lanes, while shadows stretch in amber evening light. In the hush that follows,

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

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