• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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Spring Cleaning

As the buzz of the swarming
Enters the boudoir
Someone has the door swung open
To peek hazily through the rising heat of
The sun
That doesn't yet burn
As much as set the ball rolling
For the daily industry
Of the birds and the bees
As much as it slants across the
Making allowance for the spring
To speak up for itself
On the back of this insolation
Across the expanse of the gardens
In a burst of flagrant colours
While it slides across everywhere
In plain sight yet hidden
Bowing to the grandness of the season
As much as it wishes these things were
Is at a loss for words
As it sees the glossy overcoat
Of fresh vegetation
While simultaneously viewing
The winter in recession


Spring Cleaning

Pondering at the cyclical nature
Of things
That are embalmed for future
A set-piece frozen in time
Giving way to an opening interlude,
And as it waits
And ruminates;
Like a harbinger
The lady of the house abandons herself
To the transactional deluge
Of polychrome
Collecting bits and pieces
Of the verdant, living skin
Away from the mundane gloominess
Of her stuffy rooms
Immersing in this pulchritude
That connects her fugue
To some semblance of meaning
Encased yet in a dream
That contains multitudes
Immortalizing this moment
By a rapid eye movement,
Bereft of outside interference
Like a song unfiltered
Playing to her wishes
In the windswept plains
That refuses to concede borders between
The felt and the unseen.
No more uncertain or has been
Like a slow infiltration
Pushes open the unseen specimens
Of a larger concern:
For all the explorations can't just yet
Be left to men
A woman can do a lot more with
Her uncolonized self.