|
The fan’s blades are still.
They sense they will swing
only when I want to warm up,
be ready to set about my day.
When still they look like a Yogi,
In evanescent reverie,
an unblemished lotus in the pond.
Untroubled or dismayed by the
coagulating dust on its frame,
Any more than shriveled leaves
Eviscerate the lotus in the pond.
Time breathes on them,
leaves no moss on their being.
The day comes alive only when
one sets on his toes.
Else it is just as vivacious
as the whir in the orbit. |
