The Sunlit Sigh on My Lapels . . .
On an aromatic morning
reminiscent of cinnamon rolls,
I walked out into the streets--
quilted seemingly in flying fire flames;
smelling the coming rain
in fondling breath of nutmeg breeze,
as the leafless trees pronged
the blue skies as though
trying to fork out dumpling-clouds
from the platter of lolling sun.
The morning was
a potpourri bowl of memories,
as the smell of dead leaves contrasted
with remembered freshness
of raindrops peppering early spring,
while a complacent sun
poured sunshine tasting like
cookie-crumbs in honey--
lukewarm like coffee forgotten on
the table an hour ago.
Those songs sung by larks in spring time
and echoing in the monsoons
from rippling rivers by the hills,
have been broken and scattered as
whispered syllables in embrace of silence,
flamingo-feather clouds float
above like dreams of chirping magpies,
as the piles of raked leaves seem
like the wings of dead moths
heaped beneath street lanterns.
I stand drinking in the moment,
savoring the abounding flavors and aromas.
A feathery leaf apparently sunburnt,
lands on the lapels of my jacket
like a butterfly sitting softly,
fingers move to brush it off in reflex
then stop for it felt like
a memory yellow by time’s hands,
revisiting me as an afterthought
a long forgotten dream revived by
the whimsy of creeping moments...
epithets of summers bygone . . .
Fragments of shattered rainbows,
diluted by the smeared kohl of
reiterating tempest on stagnant august days,
shine on rims of tiger lilies--
as spectral droplets of manna dew,
or frozen sighs of night
at sun-caressed edges of plumeria.
In the fields of aureate wheat,
fondled by invisible summer breeze
the swaying promises of baked bread tease
nostrils of ravenous ovens,
while wafting aroma of yeast
hibernating in larders, awaiting
the rising of flour batter,
tickle memories of soft loaves
eaten sunflower-vased table at supper.
The hour of eventide
is the oasis of parched, elastic days,
when hues in myriad pastels softly hum evensongs
like parodies of transient aubades
sung by the clouds at resplendent daybreak,
and a perspiring sun with limp mane
returns to slumber behind distant hills
lacing the obscure horizons,
leaving succinct nights to ponder
over quaint rhapsodies of the crickets.
Sulky streetlights on sultry evenings
cast faint light over gravel trails,
while glowworms emerge
from thickets
to string fluorescent twinkles
on threads of cool, summer breeze—
susurrus of unvoiced poetic thoughts
take flight to be writ in
the ink of platinum moonbeams,
on the rippling quietude of the bay.
the dense leaves of peepal tree
spin chiaroscuro to veil the blistered soil,
and sparrows chirp cinquains of happiness
to echo with droll musings
of gnarled old trees as they rediscover
something amusing in the chatter of squirrels,
water hyacinths bloom to adorn
the muddy anorexic lakes--
streamlined by thirst summer sun,
and aroma of raw mangoes wafts to tingle
the memories of tangy aampanna.
Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature, has always
expressed her innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry. A
feeling of inner tranquility and bliss captures her soul whenever she pen my verse.
Nature has been the most inspiring force in molding the shape of her writings. She
has published two books and has published poems in journals like the Rusty
Nail, Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers, eFiction India and Contemporary
Literary Review India and one of my poems was published in a book called
‘Inspired by Tagore’ published by Sampad and British Council. She has written
poetry all her life and aims to do so forever.
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