It is these days’ summer

Turns golden and drips

Gulmohar flowers everywhere

Bullion embers ignite

Orange red and yellow

Bell shaped ingots

They make no sound

Opening like stars

My garden has treasure

Threading the greens

Studded with cateyes,

Carnelians and corals

An insurgence of color

Unapologetic beats

Rhythmic as wings

Of a thousand monarchs

Why should I be less?

When this summer is more

If I am its fire

Where is my burn?


©Ruby Mohan

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