My moon has faced up.

Gone are the days of sledge sleep Snow

Of winter's river bed, dug and caved

upon the mighty vast

Of poplar heights.

There little beads of seed flowers

play Hide and seek

Over the hill berry row

In the dark dusty chimney doors.

Three summers have rushed out

And I come back-

To a valley sponged with flying kites

The lake there blue and shivery

With smallest touch

And transparent cello whines

from dark underneath.

Knitted and stretched among woollen shades

The trails that jingle for more warmth

The fishermen there makes a circle

And offer sacrifices

For the star shaped maiden face

Who ensnared my vision

With a giant net of coloured stones

And paperbag boats.

Far away, tip top beats

of cascade mountains

Honk my tunnel vision

This is a path I chose

Of clovers and germanium bloom

And Lullabies of mother's dream.

By Sayani Mukherjee

From: India