People say you are either friends for a reason or for a season,
But isn’t a season a reason?

Some of the losses rip you apart,
Some just slip out from between your fingers,
Some don’t leave,
They are just thousands of miles away

You put pen to paper,
And eagerly await a reply
You call from time to time
And you save all you earn to go back and be with them again.

The thing about friendships like that they are worth waiting for.

Your reason becomes a season,
The season is summer.

In the Hot Summer

The sun mounts high
It blazes down on the floors
The children scurry by
Everyone has to be indoors

All the plants are adust
Temperature rises by degrees
Mulch thobs by gust
Wind is sighing in the trees

The men carpet mats
Lying in shodow they doze
Pests are the buzzing gnats
They deprive them of repose

Buffaloes let out gasp
Sheep squabble over water
On brims birds clasp
And each other they slaughter

A hot wind inflicts harms
Dust is carried by whirlwinds
Boys rush into farms
Eat up melons and leave rinds

Water begins to boil
Every drop ends up in smoke
It is the sons of soil
Who burn in heat and go broke

This is no less drought
Months ahead is the rain
Yet Karanj stands out
Blossomed in thirsty terrene.

S. Bharat

autumn yawn
shire of candles
prune early hop

Spring is a doing word
- quietly, softly, resolutely
repeatedly springing up
through the heavy clay
springing forward
past these ground hog days
offering an initiation rite
of colour, warmth and new light.

Spring is a doing word
- so do it right.

The fear of a frost
Has fled our minds.
I sit in full sun
Pale, after a long winter.
Chinese forget-me-nots
Peek through the ground
Send word to the california bluebell
The time is now

on the beach
scuttles my thyme
crocuses faze

on the shore
finding myself
ruins fade

In these ugly times, my words reflect the nature.
Beauty is to be found, but it will be found later.
Like the hard-headed flower at the cusping of the spring,
My petals will soon open and sweet nectar it will bring.