the ground gives way in soft walnut brown
and sings beneath my feet.
the earth unfurls in yellow embers – rye fields –
honeyed, flow far beyond telephone wires.
a question mark, firm and round as a
i put my face on the cool of windows
and think about a hundred and one ways to spell
only half of my face remains bathed in sunlight.
Ritoshree Chatterjee pursues her undergraduate degree in English literature, and writes in order to attain clarity – or the approximations of it.