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As National Poetry Month reaches into its final week, we thought a poem would be a great way to continue the love.

The perfect season for words

By Sweta Vikram

Blank is the map of my brain secreting
pearls of commas and semi colons
but not any periods of value in the winter.

Dead is the ink in my pen,
a skunk discharging odor of garlic wrapped
in rotten rhythms, in the middle of spring.

White is the shadow of the blue bedspread
drowning the bones of sentences
with tears on a hot summer day.

Barren is the womb
of words hanging at the cemetery,
as maple reaches the well of autumn.

I decry the moment of write right
with seasons escaping tunnels of distraction,
becoming a noose around the fingertip.


Sweta Vikram is an author, poet and contributing editor to LitChat. Read her complete bio here.