Not long back,
I would make poetry of  peach blossom,
of my garden,
seeing the peach waiting to ripe
beneath the pink petals
I waited more,
Then.
And
now,
when the clouds rush to the ground,
I find  the fermented fruits,
lying in the dead clover patches
Smell says it all,
I was too late,
Birds were fast.
Next blossom,
another winter too pass,
Long  wait.

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