Every raindrop is an almost snowflake — Poems by Aditi Garg

By snowflake I don’t mean unstable, fragile.
I mean unique, like people.
In a way, every raindrop a person.

The first raindrop is welcome.
The birds hop and chirp,
the grass stretches upwards,
the mice pause the gnashing.
They are ones with the cringey love.

The second raindrop is reassurance.
Roiling quench is indeed on the way,
it comes in peace,
there will be more.

The third to maybe a few hundred raindrops,
elicit tepid response,
They do all things right,
follow the greats.
They have the conviction,
they have the drive,
they have the weight to pull it off.
Yet, when they fall, they don’t land.
Some might find a thankful squirrel,
but mostly not.
Or a paper-boat may grace them as the ocean.

The middle order raindrops,
the incessant, rushed, crowded arrivals—
things turn their back on them.
Every thing finds a lair,
their muchness not for everyone.
They are befuddled by the label of transgressionists.
They wait for the belly of the earth,
swollen with anticipation above.
Sometimes, someone twirls.

For those at the fag end,
the ones who got handed their cloud-pass late,
their poems will await rebirth.
Evaporation, condensation and precipitation—
hoping and calling it fate.

I want peaches right-
now, swollen sweet pulp bellies
tucked in comfort fuzz.

Like a sweet, fleshy
flower, the loquat invites,
I politely bite.

Dry, crisp and mellow,
Goodbye bers— the rust-yellow ones,
my satin joy kisses.

Blink and I miss it,
moody, salt-to-eat phalsa
is my sneaky tart.

Draped in royal garb,
Jamun’s gems leave my tongue dry—
pre-monsoon parched pulp.

Candy-floss of fruits,
boldly sugared yet delicate,
Shakkaraparas, my manna.

I crack the tough nut,
then, buxom clouds of nectar
shaped as a Kashmir pear.

Do you remember the shameless blue moon
sneaking up on those still, stifling hot nights,
the window open like a calm poem?
Were the moans drowned by the inky light

shimmering through curtain of tamarind?
How many nights were witnessed by the owl
before it blinked, turned its head around
choosing to be blinded on a babul?

Did you accost the overnighter who
watched you shimmy like a waterless-fish?
Did you find the pearl lost, in a lagoon
of slime and salt, first time or twenty-fifth?

Were the moon-drops stinging the welts still wet
when he chose another over regret?