Poetry by Mohul Bhowmick

LATE AUGUST

Late, late August; the ample rains muddy
The floor of the forest in dear desolation.
The berries lie pristine dampened
By the final drips of last night's drizzle.
The forsythia blooms unhindered outside
The window as my mind turns to America.
Each year, as fall approaches, I think of you.
Yet all I do now is turn, turn, turn to the rain.
The leaves moisten in indefinite wait for the
Sun that leaves no room for conjecture.
The shadows tell diverse tales at different
Hours of the day; my watch dissents sometimes.
The infidelities of the clouds run amok in terse
Acceptance of their inabilities to shimmer.
Prodded by the indecisive nature that life
Bestows upon my very being, I remain rooted
To the oranges that fill my basket with yearning.
The grass would leave no imprint of our touch,
Nor the daisies without whom monsoon had
Little meaning. The jasmines would be seen
Flitting about with a sense of purpose
As we chased them without pity or faith.
With a deep lust for expectation, I remind myself
Of the days when we would crowd these streets
Littered with the shrubbery of touch-me-nots.
Every year, I would hope against hope.


(First published in The Past Is Another Country, poems by Mohul Bhowmick)