NaPoWriMo Day Eleven

In The Kitchen

The window steams,

until droplets

run fat and thick

in wandering lines

to the peeling paint

on the windowsill.

Their slow bodies slurping

into one another’s paths,

growing, conjoining,

until the puddle is there.


The tulips now old,

have lost their colour

and hang limply,

heads bowed

and wilting,

in the vase tainted green

by the water inside,

and slimed over with something

I don’t care to name.


Sunlight fragments

through the glass.

I’m still waiting for dawn.

Make sure you check out the first of our poetic guest posts for the month by Muthri Raja! 

Until the 30th April, Writing and Works is playing host to poets from across WordPress, all here to explain why they think poetry is amazing and important. Want to join in? Email me at


  1. Is the ending meant to hang like that? “until droplets…” seems incomplete. I’m all about closure. I’m mentally filling in the supposed gap:
    …until droplets fall
    …until droplets form
    …until droplets spontaneously explode leading to a tsunami in the wash basin.

    Maybe I am not meant to read poetry?


      1. Okay, that’s weird. When I first came to the post, I couldn’t figure out how to open to see the rest. I am now fulfilled, thank you.


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