Loosely strung

Gulmohars ablaze
in May’s fiery heart,
until rain puts out the fire.

Kohl smudged,
bindi askew,
stolen joy on a drab afternoon.

Anguished agony
through blackest night,
morning bright on golden chariot.

Sparkling dewdrop,
glorious paean,
sung by night to approaching day.

Your last goodbye
was the hardest,
did you have to take hope with you?

If gold was crass,
and silver was brass,
how would we adorn the gods?

The first raindrops
on earth’s parched lips
can you hear the seeds sing?

The first raindrops
on my soul athirst,
is that why I smell of wet earth?