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Quilts and woollies of winter all folded,
From February’s fold chill when escaped, 
In March, when all ready to welcome spring,
Sun seems in hurry to wear red turban,
Few morning walkers wear woollen mufflers,
Sugarcane seems to have ripened early,
Mango, Neem, GulMohor show darker shades,
No longer the spring’s usual tender green,
Spring if at all looks like an unsure bride,
And summer rather like an aged groom.

Sun’s ripe old fervour may add to his charm,
The nature may look keen to dance with him,
All’s not well with sun’s too sharp a grimace—
To wear in early spring a red hot face,
Which, with his red turban looks burning red,
The green robes of spring fail to soothe like balm.  
The red rage of forest fire adds to heat,
The flowers that blossom wilt by the eve,
A stray koel coos in a mating call,  
Her Fifth Note sounds more than usual poignant.

Seasons, the Nature’s clock sound an alarm,
The all awake man refuses to wake,
Designed to be the school to say something,
Fails to teach man, he no more a student,
Nature no more a temple where man prays.   
The seasons have forgotten their old ways,
No wonder they follow no fair cycle,
Winters wilts as summer seems in hurry,  
Spring has no time to spread old charm to cheer, 
And summer, left alone, reigns through the year. 
_________________________________________
Blank verse: | 07.03.2023 | spring

Poet’s note: Spring in India comes on Vasant Panchami, the fifth day of waxing moon. But this year summer seemed too eager to hoist its reign. Winter was never so harsh nor spring so pleasant thanks to global warming. Holi, the festival of colours that welcomes spring seemed to come in a hurry. This blank verse wonders if spring has lost her innocence.

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