All that is plastic

The buds are being born,
the morning expectant, like
it was before.

Before the egrets stopped crowding
the little lake,

When the cottage shone with moon's
silvery beams, the willows resembled
sage grandfathers: observant yet hesitating
to comment

When you and me were too minute
we voiced our feelings,

At a time when we didn't hear of oil slick, of black rain,
of tsunami, of global this-and-that,

When autumns were rich as egg-yolk, and we're allowed
to have a dream each day, and in those past springs

Flowers used to bear more nectar, luring butterfly
and honeybee in swarms,

When monsoon was poetry, each drop on the puddle
used to send a ripple in long drawn afternoons,

When winter was a monochrome tv set, crammed
with pictures of the loved ones who passed away,
of the loving joys that were yet to be

Born, just as the buds which are blooming now.
Now that the trees are covered with dusts of centuries,
seas filled with debris, and you and I

Mere minorities, and our fathers and mothers long forgotten,
preserved in video clips, to be run and re-run at will,

And these spring, rain, autumn, winter they can all add up
how much is left and how much could be sowed in the fields

To reap a richer harvest, and to save a little something
for our darker days, for the silvery days,

The centenarian cottage is fading
from our memory.