Nature

By Shweta Chaudhary

When evening treads

on sky’s bed,

the setting sun then weds,

kissing the horizon’s edge,

its cheeks blush crimson red.

Far across the moon hangs,

pale in face, its lips shrank,

waiting to sip the wine,

of dewy night-

last time it drank,

to ease himself of summer’s pangs.

Oh! What a delight

to walk that lane,

where the air pricks

and teases plain.

Before the plumeria is to sight,

intoxicating even the most sane,

gracing the clear road that lay,

where the road shines hairy black,

after the long-awaited rain that shed.

Flowers there strewn gently so best,

with strokes of pink on their neck,

and kissed with yellow on their breast.

And then there is one

every beauty to it pales,

a sling cassia stands straight,

its flowers in breeze merrily sails,

and some shrines the field’s base.

I heard of heaven in stories and tales,

of angels and fairies and saintly place,

outshines them all; stark and plain

when the flowers to me so gently trail.

And then I think

of sorrows and struggles ablaze,

of customary fancies, of societal praise.

Had they be won,

then I wouldn’t be blessed:

to see such matchless beauty

in nature’s grace.

By Shweta Chaudhary