The lost rhythm

Summer has imprinted crow's feet under my eyes, 
Yet I have aged only a quarter. 
That's was when 
I dunked myself—starting with the crown of my head—into the ocean where The southern sun resides, to imprint upon my face its sheen, 
rhythm of miracles, and to honour it with my palms pressed together, placed on my pineal gland. 
The wind has braided my hair last fall, 
When my fingers failed to even tuck it behind my ear. 
By winter, a wildfire blazed down the forest of my hearth— 
All its leaves' weary veins' rhythm now beats with 
No soul. 
To live, I now move with rain, 
To float on the water's vastness, 
To become one with its rhythm, 
As the whole of the low-shuttering world among burnt honeysuckle trees blurs above me. The tides' rhythm floats me back to land 
Where I tumble upon the scattered pebbles beneath my feet and then wander
With crooked steps 
To untangle my soul's rhythm by spring.

Ayesha Amen and Sobit Basnet are occasional contributors to Star Literature.