The wind warm on my cheek
The minutes go by, they tick.
A bird cooing by the gate,
Wiping all feelings of hate.
I think of the hour ahead…
The constant hooting of cars,
On my nerves it jars,
And I exclaim-“Wow!
This could well be a row.
A sequestered hour…
An eagle hovers
Night towers
Dignified in its arrival,
A spark of thought, a perusal
I think of the hour ahead…
The tawn-lit sky,
An artist’s palette high
Jutting edges of the pines
Forming a sphere of shrines
I think of the hour ahead…
Cold hands, hugging myself
Like a book-deserted shelf.
Yearning to fit
The world agog with attitude
Moves on, Time’s feet
Getting heavier in solitude.