Grip

By Vedashree B N

Clouds gripping onto drops,

to shower the green blades.

The grass holding the glowing dew

in its slippery palms.

The dew breathing in the silly moving air.

The wandering breeze carrying the dew reaches the clouds.

Clouds gripping onto drops, all over again.

A cycle with simple circles.

They say change cannot be escaped.

Well, I don't want to.

Sometimes,

I just want to make it feel welcome.

Change is a stranger.

I want to make it feel home.

I want to take it on a tour,

"This is where I write. This is where I cry.

Here, you can have this room,

I'll have the key."

Just a walk

showing all the routes I usually take.

I just want to cook, for change.

"Hey! Come, eat. This is my taste."

I want to feed change,

with freshly made love.

I want to sing it to sleep,

For, change, needs warmth too.

Change had a home too.

It just moved in with me.

Hey, you're not taking up much room.

Just.

Just let me feel used to this.

To see the shapes of your belongings.

Let me.

Let me feel home too.

I am a stranger to you too.

The grip has given up.

The circles have turned to complex geometric shapes that would not fit in my curvy-lined brain.

It's alright.

I have found another way of holding.

Less this time.

Thanks to  you.

By Vedashree B N