Moondrops

img_1866.jpgHues of pinks dusted the branches,

As the dusk melted into a moonless night,

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Tiny buds unfurled their blossoms,

As the soil shimmered under the starlight

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Moonshine sprinkled on the blooms,

As the enchantment weaved in flight.

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The earth spun on its edge in joy,

As the apple blossoms glowed bright.

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Like pearls, they blushed and twinkled,

As they demured under a touch so slight.

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The sun shined brighter by the day

As honeyed petals glided featherlight.

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Like moondrops on a carpet of green,

They never failed to arouse delight.


I lost track of the number of apple blossoms I saw during my Kashmir trip, each more enchanting than the next. An ode to the happiness!

Meadow

apple blossoms

I fell asleep in the hollow of a willow tree.

A spotted caterpillar tiptoed his way up the bridge of my nose,

Whispering tales of an enchanted meadow.

Blooming into a silken butterfly, he beckoned to hold tight.

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Across the dawn-dusted sky we flew,

Shining stars illuminating our path into the valley,

Where the frost perched high on the grass

Glinting like silver pearls in the fading moonlight.

A soft crooning of magpies stirred awake the napping animals,

Faeries blew feathered kisses on crystallized flowers

Unfurling the beds of sleeping beetles and moths.

Carpets of daffodils and lilies, carnations and daisies

Spritzed up mists of perfumes into the first ray of sunshine.

Hours ticked tocked in the hustle-bustle

Of the boisterous schools of rabbits, ladybugs and pigs.

Of the solemn hymns of thrushes, lambs and hens.

Of the nectar-gathering of honey bees, ducks and goats.

As dusk shaded the last of the golden luminescence,

Fireflies twinkled from the branches of the old trees,

One by one, the world softly descended into dreamland.

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And I glided back up into the universe,

Waking up to a fragrance tickling my senses,

Catching a spark in the painting of a meadow,

And a caterpillar blooming on the edge of my quilt…

Bleeding Love

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“I understand something about love. It’s not pink. It’s different reds bleeding into each other”

– Cath Crowley, Graffiti Moon


I am hooked to this book. It is a painting of words. Caught the flowers at work – anyone know what they are called?