Time for strawberry mojitos Mulberry plucked from trees Palash flowers and tomatoes Ablaze with red so deep Lavender teas, minty greens Brown delight of cold coffees Sweet fruits of labor, now Tangy orange preserves The sun seeping in nectar To return from slumber With full force of summer Until then let me swing In the silver hammock Wherever the wind sways An open book, still unread As sparrows make acquaintance Abuzz on the wings of a bee Sweet fragrance of jasmine Intoxicated with the power Of just being alive, blooming Until the breeze knocks it off From its cradle and it lies In the dust whispering goodbyes To the flurry seeds in the air From wildflowers in sidewalks Destined to carry fairytales From this corner to the next!
*Palash is a sacred tree in the South Asian subcontinent. It has bright red flowers in early spring and hardly any leaves
Ageless forests Testimony to so much hatred! Today I saw them Bent, tired, wrinkled Aging a little bit more: Menacingly grey Blinded by smoke Of dying ashes Choking on the dead Burning trees wailing In the distance; They watch us closely Waiting to strike As vengeance stings The forest eyes!
Red dust gently stains Vivid footsteps On the forest trail Our whispers are caught In the canopy for eternity Hanging as mist! Glow worms flutter In ethereal shadows Leaves crunch below Our feet, in a terrain Dreamy, magical Where lovers meet Under the stars
It started with the small blue notepad his mother handed over to him. She was busy in the grocery aisle; he was running around, getting in the way. She ripped out her shopping list and gave the notepad to him to entertain himself. His 6-year old fingers doodled and channeled his tiny self out of trouble.
Waiting in the checkout line, she entertained him by dictating all the items in her shopping cart. He was proud of his first list. He felt almost grown-up that day. After all, writing and list-making was the effortless skill of adults. A notebook became his constant companion.