Saturday, January 23, 2016


A tiny ixora floret drops to the ground
It is neither Winter Fall nor Spring here
It is what the wind does without a sound
It calls to me after the deed is done
Look there, an ixora on the ground
Stalk to petal, tips painted, same colour
Which act was first? colour, fall, wind-bound
Which one started it? Where will it end?
Ah! there it is fragile, found
Maybe at the tip of some poet's pen
Is there kharma in an ixora lain on the ground
ON KARMA © gillena cox 2016

written for prompt #3 at Prompt Nights
Nothing haunts quite like Karma