* A Poem

The Swing

I see simmering forms in the void:
Two little boys with their mother -
That evening when the Nor-Westers came
And the raindrops kept splashing on the floor.
The electric bulb curdled the gloomy
Atmosphere that had enveloped the room.
They now approach the door and instantly
Again recede. My heart overcomes
With a sense of deja vu whenever
A room, a swing, a rain, a cloud I see.