The finger is pointed to a new flower in balcony
And thence to a rainless cloud ,a sprouting sun.
A translucent blue defers to the low-rise of gold
In the blankest sky, ever eaten by pearly clouds .
The wind plays mischief with yesterday’s flower
And flower promptly drops from helpless mom.
All this while, our sun friend would rise leisurely
On a lazy Sunday from under a sleeping blanket
Of thick and silky cotton rolls of a rainless cloud.
Sunday is his own day,not other son-of-a-gun’s.