The wistful winter

all drunk in purple sherbet,

with choked tart of frozen larva

Awaiting on the brink of the sea coast

like the tea bag dipped in tea

for the evening’s supper and sundry toast.

Whisked in dull archaic thoughts,

under loose fit sweaters

and crafted home of hearth

with nut filled cake

and homemade rusk

loafed over the wooden plank.

The breeze of ocean

Or the wallow winter wind

knitting swiftly

through my coat and pores of iced face;

turning mangoes into grapes

and smoke into fog;

And with handful of idled inertia

I doze half-filled on rusk and toast.

\\

If dust is my extant

I would flow with the wind,

drink the sip of rain

and moisturize in the sun.

I will shield the flower

which grew in my hut

Of mud and bare rusty field. 

Letting the petals fall won't

make my flower wither;

Hosting the autumn fair

would may rent it tears

Yet I will pick the flakes 

Of my yellow crusts  

and pour my existence to 

Its withered layers

Again drinking the sip 

Of sun and rain 

I will make it bloom 

over the seven heavens.