An Ad Interim God

The tree we worshipped as God
is found dead once the gale subsides.
Wind shows no faith in
the curtains, panes
or in any other fence we made.

My father crumbles dirt and cast
the dust into the pit
of ‘Everyday I wonder why
I am the only one alive in that picture
taken in seventy-three.

The day belongs to the petrichor.
Leaves of the old belief already
looks like an obscure manuscript.
I make the whistling kettle
our ad interim God, serving tea
the appropriate communion.

Tomorrow we can decide on the testaments.

Kushal Poddar, the author of Postmarked Quarantine, has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages. He can be reached at Twitter: Read other articles by Kushal.