And I grabbed a handful of his cloud <br />Stuffed into my empty pocket and hopped <br />The November evening didn’t give me away <br />I was pleased <br />I tiptoed into my summer room, <br />Stuffed some of the wistful cloud in my vase, <br />The roses I thought needed some colors <br />The thorns anyway needed the pain. <br />Some of them I placed in my box of spices, <br />The mustard they said was not to be broken <br />But splattered like rain on window panes, <br />I would then sprinkle a few around <br />A pinch of you with the turmeric <br />Honesty is good my mother had said. <br />A dropp of you I added to the shower gel <br />The smells of the vanilla and philosophy <br />Witty notes spread across my skin, <br />Dusky beginnings ending at the toes, <br />A little love rubbed into the pores. <br />Tiny bits of the cloud I spread on the book <br />Rubbed you into the pages, plutonomy? <br />Poetry? In every wrinkled page, I looked, <br />Fables and fantasy he wouldn’t dwell <br />Nonfiction? I said, sure I could not spell. <br />An inch of the cloud I placed on my bed to lie with me, <br />To talk about everything that I did not like, <br />Like the scary thunders and green vegetables too <br />And that was the last bit of you, <br />I had with me that I held tight in my folded palms, <br />In case morning came and you were gone, <br />I would know exactly where to look. <br /> <br />note Abhra= clouds<br /><br />Reshma Ramesh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/abhra/
