It hurt a bit, the little scratch When a vagrant nail scraped With nonchalant smugness; What pained more, was the yarn Pulled out from a cozy space It stared at me, pleading repair It’s world ready to unravel With a stitch now haywire
I held the woolen memory Lovingly in my warm hand Still smelling of mothballs Just subdued by gentle wash; Grabbed a frigid crochet hook Delicately weaved in the strand Tied a neat knot, pulled it tight Tucked it all away, out of sight
Do you wonder, find it strange How this world loathes When we could love more As hatred spills everywhere We stand still, stare in despair None intervene, all stay aloof “It’s not my battle, not my war” Until it is knocking at our door! For the thing with hatred is this When ignored, it only spreads Its claws are sharp, hunger wild We may be silent but can’t hide.
What had happened was Giggles over a picnic spread Thick layers of marmalade Stacks of thin crepes Trickles of blueberry Glasses of lemonade Under the mulberry tree Just dreams of summer Stained with myriad colors As in the winter sun I lay Thinking of you and all That you just left behind!
On a Sunday morning A summer-perfumed breeze Rocks the hammock A book cover gazes Vacantly at azure skies A fly lazily sits on the rim Of an empty flute of nectar Thoughts doze off embracing An idyllic disregard For chores and such Until a mundane morrow