Everything seems a little weird.
The trees are trying out fresh leaves.
Moreover, they are bustling with newer shades.
Very different from anything seen in the last spring.
To comment on their newly found happiness, is difficult a thing for me, a stranger!
Someone may be weaving new robes for them in their sun-drenched backyards.
And can we forget this?
Everyone, these days ,has a mysterious package delivered at the doorstep.
Watch how the stone-faced ants parading in their tiny black boots and shiny gear noiselessly.
They look like black cars maneuvering a hilly terrain skillfully.
Perhaps, these little bodies are already on a early summer vacation.
Hush, curb your impulse to mutilate them, when they pull up in a driveway at the edge of the woods.
I meant the branches.
Just follow their moves on the faint tracks, the thin veins of crisp cotton blossoms.
Dressed in vivid hues of mauves, pinks and oranges.
The branches drifting softly in the breeze, sway like big wooden boats loaded with springy blooms,
each papery petal attached to the other by a crafty velcro.
Can you sense someone’s mysterious hand out there?
It feels lonely to drift around through this swell.
But a new hope gleams on my swollen face.
I feel warm and secure with my coffee.
It swirls in the mug-shaped blue house.
Someone painted cream-coloured sunflowers on it.
I must write a letter to the sunflowers to meet me at some lonely place.
But do I have anything to tell them ?
I look around for them. Certain words that I need are not here.
Would the words come in search for me?
Do they know that I am in a white shirt over a ruffled skirt stitched with colorful beads?
I could feel myself stretching and reaching up high.
The sun is warming the bunch of flowers on my knees.
I feel deep within me a strange new desire.
There is a whisper in my head.
My forehead draws a line, a thin wrinkle, to read the message stuck on the gate.
It says – You sit as if you are in love. A fresh new love.
Just off the road to the mosque, where little children in white lace cotton topis pray
everyday, a fresh morning shimmers softly on the broken pieces of dead trees from
a nearby forest, which would soon fade out from the map.
I drive past this timber yard, but slow down to watch an old man and his young horse,
who are in no great rush to start the new day. He is deep brown, his mane falls
on his forehead, and the light morning breeze moves around to caress him.
His deep and thoughtful eyes relish his breakfast in an old cloth bag that is tied
around his neck. As his old master bends over to stroke his friend’s neck.
A silent talk between the man and his animal. The chaotic day is yet to begin.
I lose myself, once again, in the shadowy silence around them.
One day, I would like to touch his hair and whisper to him
“I love you. I love the way you enjoy your breakfast.
With no frantic thoughts about the day that’s yet to begin”