Out, over the bridge, almost numb in chest
Like butterflies caught breathing in cold, harsh winter morning
Dogged by a rhyme that shelters braids and locks;
Cajoled by the air to scramble, laid in ocean’s tears,
We riddled ourselves into oblivion, masked and made of icicles
Like having been in the open too early – the little children in for a treat
The wares denied a debt to deliver, written in the book of income
We had ourselves to ourselves, and no one screamed louder
As all were alike in their own surprise, making wishes off transistors.
In the outcry of having discovered a route rooted in the garden
We benched our backs into a hunch, as we harked to the eagle’s whistle;
Or was it a voice in our heads, trying to get our attention.
We paid the dear postman his due, and out we read a letter not too soon.
It was blue ink winking its words to our eyes, as we huddled together
And we had a bottle of our own colours, thrown one, two, three, all one forever
It was hour’s way of wading in a secret, waiting for the door to hinge open
Out we laid in the blossoms, even with our odds
Like letters missing yet words brimming – sense scurrying water
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017