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Spring blossom’s fine and fine’s monsoon season,
But summertime love’s like a passing shower,
E’en autumn, if my heart’s free from frisson,
No, summertime love’s not my fond flower;
Wearing the least or flimsiest of dress,
It’s like setting the salty sea aflame,
Not my scene oh, a damp flesh to caress, 
So, come again, time’s ripe when me to tame.

O monsoon winds, rend to tatters all heat, 
Let summer’s rage cool, soil fragrant post-rains,  
Its scorching bite far off on a retreat,
Ready I’m when love sings its old refrains. 
  But, Passion, as summer time’s not for love, 
  In cool content let’s coo under a grove!
_______________________________________ 
12 May 2021

Poet’s note: Summertime love, most of Indian subcontinent, where summers are extreme, is hardly a place for it. Romantic love’s fine in spring season. Monsoon maladies liltingly sing the love songs of rains. Two love birds, separated, pine for rainy togetherness. Even autumn is fine, fine is most of winter for seeking closeness and snuggly warmth under blankets and quilts. But summertime love is generally no, no here. No thanks; love of summertime is reserved for cooler climes, unless of course, one is talking about ‘Love of Summertime’!

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