Dr. Haraprasad Paricha Patnaik

Bare feet the baby sways
on the lawn, the lawn extends.

The baby hops towards a butterfly
butterfly towards the sky
no, they will not be caught

the play continues like the sky.

Hurried, I look back
to the child in me
who runs and waits, runs
to catch words
in their play with the void.
No, they hop and fly
their play continues like the sky.

I wish I were a word
like a rare bird
and not caught
by one whose search is intense
whose angst is intense
in the debris of a poem.

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