Peachy Love

​​​​Fresh flowers, moist,
float down,
​a bit after t​​he morning sun
lit up your eyes..​.
​
The buds reach your lips,
swaying down from their pedestal,
the lone peach tree up the hill​.​
Coerced​ down by the whiff of 
a mint-laced mountain breeze
​- his breath reaches yours​,​
his soul ​touches your lips,
a dance follows,
​serene like a river's flow,
wild like its roar.​​

The solitary Peach tree near The Goat Village Nagtibba (Pic: Sreetama Bagchi)

The Eyes

There isn’t a story

left to write...

But for those eyes,

and the lores

hiding behind those lashes.

Scores and scores of scrolls

unfurl as I loosen

your knot;

you let my trepid

lips doodle on your fret;

and notes rise high,

towards the creator’s bow.

I find my story there,

there in your eyes.

Misty Lips!

Smudges, they shift
with each sigh from 
the old artist’s soul,
in between his freezing
brush strokes.
Pure bliss,
his heart creates
the lines which 
let life flow
in a sedate pace,
the perfect cadence
to feel heaven,
which plays hide n seek
in an unknown,
wet, yet misty cycle;
The right music 
to feel you, in the breeze;
to taste your lips in
the fresh green fern
I kissed...

Shhhhhhh!
Yeah, I kissed...
Ever so gently,
so, so softly;
lest I wake up the 
God from his dream.