By K.S. Subramanian
WHIR IN THE ORBIT The fans' blades are still. They sense they will swing only when I want to warm up, be ready to set about my day. When still they look like Yogis, In evanescent reverie, unblemished lotuses in the pond, Untroubled or undismayed by the coagulating dust on their frame, Any more than shrivelled leaves Eviscerate the lotus in the pond. Time breathes on them, leaves no moss on their being. The day comes alive only when they set on their toes. Else they are as just vivacious as the whir in the orbit.
K.S.Subramanian, a retired Senior Asst. Editor from The Hindu, has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India. His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi. His essays and blogs can be found under his name in http://www.boloji.com.
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