Heat leaks through walls and wind
and spreads itself out in dusty rooms.
Summer is here, with its particular
joys and sorrows, days stretched
elastic over wavering horizon as
scent of sun clings to everything
we know. All I have with me is
description;
does description presume emotion?
Recollection, revolution, regression,
salvation?
The fingers of a poet
itch to write life into
passing days - words
are only a way to hold on,
to remember in contortions
of language, keepsakes of
this restless traveller
known as time.
My stories are blinded by sun
today, the brightness sits in every
corner of me and leaves no space
to breathe; all I have is the promise
of night, of petrichor and moonlight,
of wind running through my hair and
claiming my wild heart as its own.
There is no time yet
to consolidate
no time to breathe easy
and sink into water and soil
grow flowers or new leaves.
No time, no time, no yearning
days and quivering nights, just
the sighs of summer endings,
closures and conclusions.
I will gather ideas and words,
colours and scents, pack them
gently into empty boxes: I will
have memories to unravel over
days and weeks, new promises
to write into my fingers, new
blossoms to wait for in faith.
These grounds are parched,
these cups are full: with time,
balance will restore my mind.
Monsoon will nourish my
desert dreams, and time
will take wisely from
my overfull cups,
leaving space
for me to
grow.