A
summer poem
I had spent two receding wintry months,
Me, beneath the thick woolen rug,
Completely frozen, my writing mood
at a standstill, at times shivering
and quivering along with my body,
long spell of rains with uncouth
sound of the falling waters,
as if not to wet the parched land,
the appeased deity of rain followed by
rituals and sweet rice ball and offerings,
by the childlike village farmers
yields to wet the stony heart of
folks whose hearts have become
dry and totally dry,
nothing but venom ooze.
I get up slowly resisting
my wrestling mood,
browsing Emily Dickenson,
setting me into a summer mood.
The glass shutters of my window panes
moving to and fro as if in a warring mood,
the penetrating cool breeze
now takes to my balcony,
mild sunbeams creep cheering me up,
a small sparrow on the dried leafy
branch swinging to and fro,
I am afraid if the coconut would fall
and crush the spongy feathered bird,
the bird swings and swings,
oblivious of the scenario,
the book of poems on my hand,
summer hangs on with my siesta.
