Neena Singh

When Dreams Die

Back at your house after a year since covid claimed you. The air is heavier, thick with stillness.

empty kitchen—
the musty smell
of moth wings

I walk through the rooms, past yellowed curtains; a spider’s web brushes my face. The clock in the living room has stopped. My photograph on the mantelpiece smiles at me, and I look away. The wooden staircase creaks on the third stair as always. Your mother’s sewing machine still by the attic window, its wheel stiff with rust.

mid-autumn—
dust motes drift
in slanting light

The garden you tended is overgrown with weeds and the rose bush is a tangle of thorns, and yet…

black spot
yet a lone rose
scents my hand

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About the Author

Neena Singh lives in Chandigarh, India. She was shortlisted for the Touchstone award in 2021, and her haiku, senryu, tanka, and haibun have appeared widely in online and print journals. A former banker, she now runs a non-profit for underprivileged children and enjoys exploring gardens.

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