From the hazy window, 
I see those frail feet. 
Mother of two, 
Still searching the garden green. 
Mating butterflies, 
ending their weekly ignorance. 
Moths munching on the plantain,
awaiting the darkness it craves. 
Monochrome thoughts on the ill-lit swell.

The blanket over my eyes, 
traps me in its grasp. 

What if the tears dry? 

Her mane now I caress, 
my tender arms over her aching self. 
Further the cumulus grows, 
I retreat into the deeper below. 
Broken vessel under the rain,
I now drown with others’ grief. 
Forlorn pups with their twisted tails,
silent and abrupt. 
Evening sets in, 
far from home. 
 
But what if those tears dry?

Reach I the rainbow red,
many a time on an eventful morrow.
Dry their tears,
on the basking seashore. 
Forget I myself.
amalgamating into the indifferent blue.