so she arrives...like the season of spring...

sometimes...she arrives
wearing the newest green
under the blue sky of spring
as if she comes to wait
for me by the river straight...

she comes sometimes with a shade
cool breezy flakes of white sand dropping on my head...
like a pure dream of a land unseen but heard often
in lores of forgotten youth that soften
adult hearts with drops of moist dew...
sometimes she arrives with stories few...
wearing her newly bought green
waiting for me at the onset of spring...
by the river and the mound of sand
white mica laden -a sparkling land...

And I dream of radha and krishna
tunes of flute flooding my ears
and colored pollen grains on my painted vision...
soft...benign...on a pleasing morn...
sometimes she arrives like a tree alone...
wearing her best sunday green...
smelling so much of flowery spring...


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