a tryst with an afternoon of spring.

Had I not in such love been
Of thy beauty, Queen of Spring,
The afternoon would not have carried
Such corns and grains in sheaf,
Golden as left on the field
and lustrous like Proserpine,

I find You as Core
of Beauty everlasting
and also as a cause of poetic out pour,
as I hear thy indulgent swing
Making cuckoos to sing
Merrily with spontaneous ease,
Making the afternoon so sleepy,
Turning slow the movement of shadow
of trees on ponds so lively, green,

I find thy rustling wave conversing
with leaves of varied colors, mild and striking,
I smell pollens in the air,
those tiny floating particles yellow,
like adornment to Your flowing hair,
I succumb to thy lazy haze sweet
which has always made birds to chirp and tweet,

And from winter I tread towards
a season of generation and honeycombs.