Stranger by the Minute

Something is strange in the breeze this afternoon.
It carries tell tale stories of trees cooking ambrosia, that drifted with the pollen, as clouds grazed newborn forests’ incantations in dawn’s mist.
Something is strange with the wanton gust that carries songs of Gandharvas, who hovered over the valleys, crooning of immortal life and desire trees tremulous with golden flowers.
Something is strange about the resonance of the summer winds that gurgle with unadulterated nectar meant for all, flowing in a cascade of frothy effervescence, popping the quintessence of life.
And as I seek all of these illusions, leaves skip with the dust as if in exhilaration that illusions are prequels to the real. And on and on this goes as I get closer and closer to the green of the hills that turn brown, teal, yellow, bronze, alder and mint leaving mere silhouettes as the light goes behind them.
Something is strange with the light today. It talks to me.



All © ® Geethanjali Dilip

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