By: Rochi Zalani
I sit at last, free, under the summer night
The air is a dry, crispy, sweet bowl of warm soup
I read a chapter or two; then another and more
I clean my desk, to make space for an empty page
The table is too clean, my spine tight, jammed, stuck
I sit on the floor
With all its uneasy sitting, familiar dust specks,
It is homely
A bird has come outside my window,
unstiffening to constant chaotic movement,
Like me, free at last
A leaf has made the landing, heaving a sigh of rustle
I breathe with it, till the sun rises
The morning dew and the nightly air; they carry
a familial bond – made of scrapes of art, of solitude
Again, I arrive, at last, free, under the summer night.
Bio: Rochi Zalani
Rochi Zalani is a staff writer at Elite Content Marketer who relishes fresh poetry.
She talks about books, poems, and the troubles of everyday life on her website.
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