'I have started morning walks',
the poet was telling his friend
last evening.
'You must be writing more poems these days'
responded the friend.
'I don't write poems'
'Yeah I know . . . you must be capturing
the happening poem'
'I don't capture either,
actually, it's the poem that captures me'
'Oh! so you want to say that
poems are capturing you more frequently
these days!'
'No. I select different paths on different days
to avoid being captured by the poems'
'That's interesting.
How's it possible?'
'It's not that difficult,
poems do have seasons.
During the pre-monsoon,
poems come to you
on the wings of
white little butterflies.
One needs to select
the desert path then'
'mm...'
'During the monsoon
in the neighbouring land,
poems come to you
on the mischievous wind.
It tries to enter you
disguised as dusty sand.
One should then walk along the river
as its flow
will silence the chattering wind'
'mm...'
'During the spring,
poems get into the fragrance
of wild flowers.
It's then better to walk
on the sides of broad highways,
where the air is filled with
the smoke of modernity'
'mm...'
'During the winter,
it waits right next to your doorstep
as an early morning thief.
One should stay inside the house
covering oneself fully with a blanket
and pretending to sleep.
Never come out till the day is warm'
'mm...'
'When it rains
the valley gets filled with poems
and it's wise then to climb the hill'
'mm...
that's why I saw you
climbing the hill the other day'
'Yes'
'But you still posted a poem
that day'
'True!
I climbed upto the hilltop
and was coming back.
After a little while
I just glanced over the valley
out of sheer curiosity.
It is then that poem recognised me,
flew across to the hilltop
only to jump on me from there'
':-)'
,..
