The Woollen Blanket

Though the monsoon isn’t as cool as in the past, they snuggle under the blanket. This rarely used heirloom provides them with an ethereal warmth. The love-light illuminates their woollen chat room. Every morning, he goes to the north, and she to the south. They rust in work and worries. Now they knowingly forget their duties, don’t rack their brains with tomorrow. They pray the rain to be steady, the air polar-cold. She entwines his bole and branches. He plucks the red strawberries on the blanket. Bites. Juice oozing out is an elixir. Thus, they pick a precious day from the carousel of time. First published in The Literary Hatchet