Poetry Is Not Dead

Poetry is not dead.

It's heard in the music of a cuckoo bird In the sound of moonlight bouncing off footpaths in perfect right angles 
The lilt of your laughter.

It's seen in the contrast of clouds against the summer sky
In reticent creases of your mother's freshly ironed clothes
The slight upward tilt of your smile.

It's felt in the first rain of the monsoon In hand woven sweaters in cold
The curve of your back against my hand.

It's smelt in freshly cut grass
In a new born baby's hair
Perfume wafting from your arms around me.

It's tasted in ghar ka khaana after a year away
In the first sip of water
Your lips against mine.

Poetry is not dead.
It lives on, within you.