I sat on a rain- splattered stair at a Midway resort,
where the Volvo had stopped for twenty minutes;
and occasionally, with leonine aplomb, the clouds roared.
And the rain poured.
Why did the girl standing under the tree smile enigmatically?
Was she reminded of her first rain- drenched kiss
under the gulmohar tree?
I wondered as the clouds thundered.
Feeling like a drenched kitten, fascinated by the rainy weather,
I was transfixed by a tiny feather, cruising merrily in a puddle.
The orphaned feather was so full of life;
brimming with vitality it was.
As the feather steered itself around a tiny pebble,
the sky cleared and a drop of golden sun
tickled the tiny one.
It now glowed with a new ardor;
so intoxicated by the scene, I forgot to lament the blister
on my ankle which had just burst.
The rain whispered, in hushed tones, pelting the ground,
sheltering me from the cacophony around.
The bus honked, another raindrop plonked,
The conductor’s gravelly voice bellowed, “Come back.”
I was back
from my reverie.