The trees are moving,
as, the winds sway,
they flitter with a raspy voice in season,
in shades of a jade green—naked to an eye,
baked in roasted colors of yellow-brown,
bronze by the end of a Spring, forlorn.

Whispers of exultation,
spreading solace, are found
in frozen ice cubes immersed
in a cold water glass,
to quench lips parched,
as dry and frail—like the summertime warm sky above; waiting for a drizzle all along.

The sultry afternoon is warmer than bright,
waltzing in different shades of bluish-white with the blinding sun, causing,
drapes of curtained windows down;
secured with shaded trees
to call shelter from the blaze,
inducing sleep; a lackadaisical noon.

The flowers flutter in the light winds caused,
the rays of sunshine, on them fall,
in petals that rise, in colors known differently
balmy as though, sprightly in veneer
with coconut trees, still standing upright;
that sprout the tastiest coconut water
with its meat all-over, dripping on fingers,
to be relished in a scorching heat of a summer.

The cooked rice, is eaten with curd,
cool for the stomach, for heat to curb
and, the cold watermelon
being sliced to halves,
is heard crisp on the edge of a knife;
to formelt the beads of sweat that roll,
which soak in the finest cotton linen worn.

The mangoes freshly skinned are diced,
arranged decoratively,
on vanilla ice cream slabs
in more than two scoops
of a spoonful—
with crystals of ice that form beneath
they, too, are being wolfed down hurriedly;
in little joys of a summer known.

The grapes half eaten, kept on a tea table,
with, tea now little consumed,
filing them with glasses of freshly flavoured juice; they are being chugged in tall mugs,
squeezed from the sourest fruits
prepared with cold milk, sugar and love;
they are little joys of a summer known.

– Shweta Kher