Red bunches of poetry
A few petals wither slowly
Replaced by hundreds overnight
Set the forest on fire
Not one that burns, but soothes
In spite of the spiteful heat
When the wind blows
Flowers magnify it and
Infuse it with an aroma
That takes you back
To long lost days
Memories of long ago
Of running among trees
Of weaving flower chains
Of summer skirts and ice
Of games that lasted hours
Of fancy flavored drinks
Of not a care under the sun
Red bunches of poetry
Upon the Gulmohar tree
The stuff that makes
Time Machines
