Buried leaves Picked
I buried heaps of leaves
Under my cosy bed;
Years later, they turned
A uniform brown,
Those, which were once
Green, yellow and red.
To have a glance
I dug them out and reread;
Left out for long, they appeared
Indecipherable, blurred
Lost their outstanding stance.
Once upon a time
They were also words;
I felt them alive within, afresh.
When did this nib happen! But thank you you three musketeers. Yes I mean Luigi, Gerald and Goth. Gratitude.
Supratik.
Well done on the Nib, mon ami. The Nibber is an all pervasive, unseen but all seeing, omnipresent presence but it’s not me, and Luigi says it’s not him. It might be Trevor. If it is, he’ll be sworn to secrecy. I tend to think whoever it is, he or she is an eminence grise.
Gerald
Ha ha ha! No it was the effort I was pointing at; you are the ones who brought out the mistakes so well and gave the poem a facelift. Luigi was the first, Goth first with his absence, then with his consent and you were like a champion of champions. I enjoyed your witty response too!
You have a wonderful day mon ami.
Supratik