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Uprooted by Neetu Malik

She pulls dirt out
of holes she digs in her garden

a winter occupation she takes seriously
in the fleeting daylight

her hands covered with soil
bits of dead roots of past summer
cling to it

a smell of death rises
to her nostrils, she closes her eyes
for a brief moment
imagining death, being separated
from her roots, becoming

a name without form or substance
in the local paper’s obituary section
mourned, perhaps, for an instant
in timeless time’s heedless march
a picture on the wall, remembered
and forgotten, dusted on occasion

to all mortal eyes
invisible.

© Neetu Malik

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