Summer Summit

By Ritu Borah

Don't ask my vulnerability , I myself 0' hearttake my hope ,and tap my will . So the watchman knows from bright to dimto look at sunset up close .I ask myself when was the last time that I ever behold , and love that summer in heart with the warmth of a rainbow , and look upon the years build by sunny terrain .The sun , as it crawls the terrace , and climb up the tall walls , peep inside a windshield , upon a tree , trails zig - zag road , and it's choices of fern burns a stilt house .By firmly implanting it's foot invade the roof , in the thickness of minutes , and hours' tour , it drives through the abandoned shingles , and even boils the dining hall , the table's leg withstood in disbelief , it vexes the relaxing chair , and radiates like a warm factory that nothing hides behind its audit . It makes prey in glorious moves : the playful child misses his run , and enters into a mission hospital ; the masonry with the hat hurries in the shade . He shakes , takes heart , and hurries to build once more ; the cook mixes his sweat with food unaware of the rich salt in brewery ; the heavy clothes rub against the skin's light .(And what not the prickly heat ode juice colour ) .It implores us in many ways !Some brown collar told in a man's closet that his shirt would stain , and he has to wash again . From the rich draught of wrinkle free , the weatherman sought a new umbrella , he uses like a good old gold , but surprises all when he gifts someone like a pure wedding clown .(Even the summers are building graves exceeding their steps of burn .They pass their age inevitable to our cold ,where roots shrunk into snow , and we turn ice ).Spare assistance had many holes , and it even lists some further demands :like scattered to be ordered at times when mind is the treason of dark ,tormented glow roots peak by vexing birthday bumps ,as the fierce wind blows fast forward tune , it heralds the gunner , who shoots , and cuts off the mcb . So the moving fan sleeps well without reach .Not every comforts is from an ac , or a fridge when someone might have sore throat and hanging cough .They sleep covering their insecurities. Just like a life floats among a billion stars , these crew rains into dots , soiling a new summer crop.Where choice partook this wish , the mind advises , " I need a spring break from the summer's tides as those have shrunken my scope to live comfortably , and perhaps the weather settles down with cool conditioners that make us joy once more".Cut , cut , cut ...eat this summer's crap golden rule , the torrid volcano isby far the leaves of dead stems and branches whisper, unwavering a mynah's ode to the straining wings .They left when it was too hot to handle , coping their belly fermenting with the thirst's cuisine , and the lone beaks of reeded eyes search for the day's light .The cows in and out of rest , and how do they devour the hollow winds with the grassroots soft churning out : from what they chewthose boiling stock pair with crush ,muzzle the blood streams ,and nose bleeds from the parasites .

I found these razor sharp mouth engaging with flies who will whirlpool , and circle around the groove overhead , like a peculiar cobra smile , and the laughing dog in exile — blind from their dust than the moors over abundance in painplanted softer mou ( memorandum of understanding) under the shade of a tree ,and the goats binding their hardest roam with the fort of wait .They roam under the shade of a verandah, and sleep on top of a frozen mount or rest to munch their intake , their beautiful eyes blinks and hearts ooze with fast breathe .Their butterflies borrowed from the state of store , or nourishes their own thirst , a part to the heaven's sun .Stone hearted heavy roller rolls , and nothing new to wind knocks , crushes !What in years mould beside the mother's love.But darkness unsettles her testament, her temperament to a river flood .It floors , it wades !From shifting sand build to the perspective of a bird documentary ,time flew away , and debut queue over the horizon at a roundtable of silhouette chalice — then this treasurethe flickering eyes of the clouds hold a Ewe . Chart from a craftsman's eve from hands of the powdered glue :"I am what we are I am told with thoughts from all mellow and cold ". 

To exist in this nerve I depart a pool of a whole but, parallel with the night's loud cooking street , and crouching woes muzzle over many stars shooting love cruise .A strange tinsel from the mount of diamond gown as nature partook flowers , and her dreams .Let us pamper a thousand living heart close ,deprive of their nook when they sleep once more they brood — many fairies dip in a little stream , live on a route to walk their fashion parade ."But could this reminiscence size !With a time span of ten minutes break ,or recipient of the refuse take ,now that the patience reads ,and teaches us to learn more".

By Ritu Borah