There’s something about June.
The way she dresses night and noon,
of sultry garnishes and drowsing rain by the day.
celestial events peeping behind the clouds in the evening sky,
whispering of unrelinquishing love of a summer lad and a winter lass.

There’s something about June.
The ways she speaks of a danger in loom,
of torrential rains and inundated plains.

There’s something about June.
The way she whistles night and noon,
of monologues of musical ballads of a lost traveler.

There’s something about June,
Which makes you write even in gloom.
There’s something about June
Which reminds of Frost on a monsoon afternoon.

of seconds of gasping breath after a long run,

seconds to gain the  breath of a mile.

of seconds sunshine warmth after a downpour

to gain the stoppage time over a rainbow.

of seconds reading the last few lines,

seconds to ponder upon Frost on a frosty night.

of seconds of writing goodbye messages,

to decide whether to write again.

of seconds of your last vision,

frantic search of the meadows.

of seconds of the last chapter,

to recollect the familiar faces again.

of seconds of notes,

desiring to be a melody .

of seconds turning into minutes in a tick

of seconds losing their identity in a click.

To willingly desire the undesirable –

the tuft of feathery leaflets,
unblossomed florets of passion,
warm silent goodbyes in january.

To willingly delve into the unknown-

trails of a nomadic fragile woman,
savoury taste of pelican meat,
pleasure of an aromatic flower,
the lingering kiss of a stranger.

To willingly carry you with thyself-
into the white sand desserts,
through the green meadows,
amongst the ferry ghat cocophony
passing the woods of piercing sunlight

To willingly live, to willingly breathe, to willingly dwell in each other.

It flutters through the window pane and rushes with the speed of rain. twitters with birds of spring , cries for the river in the plain. It laughs in the hidden hope and kisses as a loving friend. Longs for the winter of solitude, dwells in the heart of pain. It calls in the mid-night dream, flys in the morning song. It asks for you to explain, till you try in vain. Until the agony ends, for you to find it again.

Plenty more to bury, plenty more to cover.
I may falter but she will not alter.
I may forget to plant but she will make them bloom.
years later I might forget but she will send a stranger to the tombstone.
I might forget to water but she will shower the rain.
I buried, she embraced.
Plenty more to blossom, Plenty more to wither.