There are days in everybody's life
when the sun wishes not to set...
I had one such day when on a late May
there was light drizzle
and I stood under a white rose bush
in our balcony to get wet
After the passing cloud moved away,
I watched the drops of water
dripping from the leaves;
I shaped my fingers in the pattern of a bird
with the index finger as its beak to sip.
I repeated this with each finger except the thumb
till mother's terse word admonished,
'It is enough, get in, untimely rain is not good.'
When I look back this day,
I do not see the passing cloud,
the rose bush has been removed, too,
in their places mother's words
appear so sweet and sugar-coated
and the flowers of her memory
far whiter than any rose blossom in my heart
The sun of that evening has not set yet...