It all started with the pungent yet sweet smells
of the buds in the lazy winter noons or
ascending long evenings.
It all started with thuds and thuts on the roofs;
they were young and unripe;
they are sour and sweet–
You can have it but don’t be ashamed of
the smacking that follow.
When the April Nor’wester arrives, they fall with rain
giving opportunity to play
found and collect; the most collected one is winner
for sure.
Nothing can be done when it’s a prompt and it’s
Summer; the essays and poems get
occupied by its scents and tastes;
pages filled up with the fantasies.
Nothing can be done when it’s juice or shakes or
smoothie and it’s Summer; it will be there in
varied guise, there are so many name for each
like Langra, Alphonso, Himsagar, and
et cetera et cetera.
It all started with a quarrel, sweet, who has the juiciest
or who is going to have the softest ripiest one.
The shame takes an escape as the mouth and jaw got
smeared with its yellow or orange, and the taste
trickled down the wrist making dots or spots
on the place of sit.
You can lick your hands if you want.
Abandon the fork to taste it.
Bite if you want to taste the best
or you can skin it but don’t forget to lick inside
the skin–
the treasure of ecstasy also remain hidden there.
It all start with poking to examine the softness;
followed by sniffing; followed by getting the skin;
conclusion is the excited slurp and satiated smacking
accompanied by
scent–sweet and balmy Summery one.
