On seeing a tree after sixty days, I marvel at the forest-green, the gaping yellow,
as if the self is falling into the mouth of a great yawn. To fall is also a meditation:
there is a moment before, non-silence, non-sentient. Almost like the slow shedding
of colour when mother beats her salwar against the marble. You look away, as a pattern,
understand that to look is also to allow the possibility of beholding- your hands,
pointing to the deep hue of the leaves, the repetition, the fern singing with meaning.
Fractals, in nature, are seen as blooming with “infinite intricacy”, that is:
an entanglement which refuses to end. A complication that drives off into endlessness.
Next to us, someone hugs someone else, also as a pattern. Next to us, people kiss,
hold, sit close. Lay their heads on each other’s chests. Next to us, the world-
Next to us, the torn leaf we hold in our hands. The burden of a fractal, unable to replicate.
Next to us- us, leaf, forest-green, the cold icy heaviness of space. To articulate it
is also to silence it.
Smriti Verma grew up in Delhi, India, where she studies English Literature at Shiv Nadar University. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Alipore Post, VAYAVYA, The Adroit Journal, Coldnoon, B O D Y, Cleaver Magazine and The Four Quarters Magazine, among others. She works as a Poetry Editor for Inklette and The Ideate Review. In the past, she has worked as a Poetry Fellow with Slam Out Loud. Her interests involve film, literature and cultural studies. Her work can be viewed at smritiverma.tumblr.com.