With No Apology

Satish Verma

On the mount 
a broad-leaved tree was preparing 
for self destruction. 
It was too cold 
under the sun. 

A small Christmas tree 
with its needle leaves 
waits for the snow, 
to draw a self-potrait 
in bitter winter. 

Snow fall makes it 
gold, when rain comes 
and my hand knives the moon.