let this be a blossom on your vine, a small creeper
whispering in the night, singing its flutter-song,
its wind-rustle, tilting up to the warm sun of your gaze.
and the sweet sound of voices in the garden
and the ladies in their rose and bluebell dresses
and the gentlemen stiff and white but smiling
and the children, oh yes the children always
squishing down the flowers, for a little, as they run...
may this be a small fishy in your waters, a minnow
whistling past, dancing up to the surface, diving deep,
lost and lonesome for only a little while.
and the rising storm ruffling the once-still waters
and the fisherman racing in to shore, sails shivering
and the lighthouse keeper with reddened eyes, still awake
and someone laughing, despite it all, hands outstretched
with churning waves and crashing rain and wind...
****
M.A. Mohanraj
July 30, 1998
(for columbine)
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