And I grabbed a handful of his cloud
Stuffed into my empty pocket and hopped
The November evening didn’t give me away
I was pleased
I tiptoed into my summer room,
Stuffed some of the wistful cloud in my vase,
The roses I thought needed some colors
The thorns anyway needed the pain.
Some of them I placed in my box of spices,
The mustard they said was not to be broken
But splattered like rain on window panes,
I would then sprinkle a few around
A pinch of you with the turmeric
Honesty is good my mother had said.
A dropp of you I added to the shower gel
The smells of the vanilla and philosophy
Witty notes spread across my skin,
Dusky beginnings ending at the toes,
A little love rubbed into the pores.
Tiny bits of the cloud I spread on the book
Rubbed you into the pages, plutonomy?
Poetry? In every wrinkled page, I looked,
Fables and fantasy he wouldn’t dwell
Nonfiction? I said, sure I could not spell.
An inch of the cloud I placed on my bed to lie with me,
To talk about everything that I did not like,
Like the scary thunders and green vegetables too
And that was the last bit of you,
I had with me that I held tight in my folded palms,
In case morning came and you were gone,
I would know exactly where to look.
note Abhra= clouds
Reshma Ramesh
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/abhra/
