The first northwesters have swept the hair off my face.
The incessant roars of the indigo skies have
Made my cat jump out in fright.
Flowers on the sill have turned a happier hue
With droplets settled on their outer lips, like dew
Who doesn’t blush with a kiss?
The skies have roared again.
My cat has perched upon my tummy,
The yellow of his eyes fixed on my dark.
Where is the moon tonight?
Does it matter how I have been?
Before this night?
Originally written on : 8th April 2015