your talk is all of
flowers
blooming softly in a dawning warmth of sweet sunlight
and your crooked half-smile
an invitation to join in; appreciate cliche
but I am
thunderstorms
in spring
forever churning, raining, shining wildly
a dazzling flash of brilliance
and the afterimage
burned against shut eyelids
of a face unforgotten
flowers cannot survive
my storming
our seasons are not
the same
you should have come to me in summer, my sweet
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
March 7, 1993