Snail.

I'll pray you reach

that flowering tree,

before the end of the spring,

Snail.

Or let wind be kind

and lightly drop

the blossoms in your trail

like incense

to your tireless altar

( Anoodha for the elaboration.)

A single cobweb.

Paint the walls fine,

but leave the cobweb alone.

My only friend of the last rains.

Snail.

I'll pray you reach

that blooming tree,

before the end of the spring,

Snail.

Ants.

I.

I place a dry leaf 

on a passing-by ant.

Last night it bit me.

II.

I'm alone this summer.

Come live with me ants,

but do not eat my food.

The sunflower field.

I.

The alert sunflowers field,

listens to the sun discourse,

oblivious to the coming harvest.


II.

As the sun enchants a sunflower field,
Harvest creeps in, unnoticed.

Snail.

Stubborn sun of a punctured ego,
is brawling with all life below.

The unaffected snail

is walking and pausing.

Melted.

A single flower, 

and just one bee.

I want to fall in love again.

Memoirs of spring.

I.

Blossoming plum tree.
How well the falling petals
conceal the many abortions,
of your unwanted children.


II.

Falling petals from plum trees,
weave a white carpet, so soft.
Never a more spectacular show,
Of death.


III.

Plum flowers like mothers
Shed and sacrifice their petals.
To give to the ripe babies,
a gift of safe arrival.

Restrained.

The bee longs
for the blossoms yonder,
Looking through the glass window.

Love.

It hides behind the clouds, peeking.
It glows of a secret,but is too shy to tell.
The moon must be in love with me.

Ripples.

Ripples run around,
to tell everyone,
a fly's mischief.

Clouds.

The weavers of the clouds of imaginations,

work relentlessly, day and night.

For the children are growing

every second.

Judging Love.

Call it not "just a twig," love.
From the heart of a thorny bush,

in the middle of a desert oasis,

sprayed with glacial water,

wrapped in a japanese paper,

It's not a rose, but

call it not "just a twig," love

and never consider it such.