Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
THOSE RAINY DAYS
The groggy growl of our old outdoor dog
made me peek through the neglected window
only to notice the leaves swirling down,
swirling and swirling down the young yew tree
in the once glorious and green garden.
The leaves swirled down just like the dates
drying up and falling off
the greasy kitchen calendar.
Drinking a serene coffee with a false face
to our innocent children each morning
and looking at your photo each night
could never stop the fall of leaves or dates.
Smoking cigarette after cigarette
could not burn down my passion for your blue eyes,
for your sweet whispers or red anger.
I still want those rainy days by the lake with you,
drenched by the open umbrella
discarded on the muddy grass,
looking like an inverted mushroom, capturing the rainwater.
How we would each place a fresh flower
in the umbrella and swear
by the drenched kissing petals
a blissful life in each other's eyes.
Every rainy moment I still turn the umbrella
into a mushroom to capture your memories and smiles,
but now there are no flowers by the lake.
Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius
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