Conifer and the snow

.

He has frozen over now
And fallen heavily on her bough
Hardened over time by things he saw
Although. She had warned him.

But as leaf after leaf had fallen each day
Naked branches clearly on display
Her tears now useless she began to pray
Although. She couldn't want him

.

The pebble and the ocean

.

She tumbles off the boat
And cuts through the surface of the ocean
The deep blue surface of the ocean
That slaps across her face
And entraps her
And she falls and falls
Deeper and deeper
Past secret wonders
Wondrous colorful weeds
Secret hydrothermal vents
And octopus peeping through their holes.

And deeper and deeper she went
Forgetting who she was
And where she came from
Until she settled on the surface
Of red orange coral
And wondered what they were about -
Where was the sound of deer calling
And the tiger roaring?
Where were the sunny skies
The grass and the ants
And the monsoon rains?

.

The shore-line and the tide

.

By moon-rise, he is overcome by a nagging urge to retreat to the mysterious and spine-chilling depths of the ocean. With all the new barriers between them, efforts to reach her fatigue him and he is consumed by a desire to rest in the folds of the sea unfathomable. He morphs into a recluse, a saint meditating on spirituality, a hippie high on passionate wonder.

The abandoned boat rests on its side upon her exposed breast. Crustaceans crawl around searching for crevices to hide in. The shore-line still has the undulating ridges from where he had lazily drawn circles on her. And she had let go and swirled off with him in reckless abandon, and rested back light and happy.

Rhythmic impressions on her slowly get replaced by random scars left by crabs digging for a place to hide and fisher-men dragging their nets. Hopefully, tomorrow he will come and clear away the mess in her head again.

.

The clay pitcher and the glassful of water

.

She was hand-crafted from the finest clay; sat dignified, lady-like upon the table - a symbol of perfect symmetry and voluptuous beauty. A hollow pitcher, created with a defined purpose - and not just for visual delight. She sat patiently with the rested confidence of one who believes in herself and higher powers.

He was created with a defined purpose too. It was time to let go of the adventurous days of recklessly flowing around the country-side, thundering over hills and titillating valleys. It was time to shake off his sins and retire to a more stable life-style. Should he nurture the cut-flowers on an old-lady's table?

She accepted him sedately as he was made to pour down her back and settle into her belly. He felt cold in the dark and dreary place, and though her earthy odor was familiar, he could only go so deep - she couldn't be moved to bear life and laughter. He sighed and realized this would be his final resting place.

And now her purpose was being fulfilled, was she satisfied with herself? Was there any scope to build something more beautiful than to nurture flowers cut off of some plant thriving in the rich and youthful soil of the garden outside?

.

The desert and the river - part IV: The banyan tree and the monsoon rain

.


The little owlet that had taken shelter in her quiet, gnawed trunk peaked out of his hole enquiringly as the first cool zephyr alarmed her glossy leaves into a rustle, informing of his approach. The pair of chirpy squirrels stopped chasing each other through her branches and thought of hiding in a dark, private corner. The parakeets were suddenly quiet - waiting expectedly. The song in her heart died down, and she clung to the Earth with all her roots, waiting for the worst.

He came rumbling from over the hill, too drunk with the heady delights of a couple of hours of thunderous orgy - the ravaging of the hill-side with wind, rain and sleet - quite confident that the trees in the forest must have secretly enjoyed the storm after a whole year of boring quietude. But he was stopped short by the vision before him. Here was a tree that reminded him of childhood! He reached out gently to explore, at first, this magnificent and shy tree that appeared to be quite content without him; her dark, shady recesses almost inaccessible; her branches, just a moment ago, so alive with happiness.

The gentle kisses of the first few drops came as a pleasant surprise, the pitter-patter almost welcome. She shyly shook herself free of tension, the squirrels emerged from their secret hiding place, the parakeets broke out into chatter, the owl gave a hoot or two before turning comfortably back into his hole again. She would make friends with him if he promised to behave.

.

The desert and the river - part III: The Tide and the Sand

.

And now and now he grows tired. And now, and now he reaches out like an exhausted man reaching out to grab the edge before he loses his grip altogether. The lull after the storm; the tide as it recedes; the waves as they go farther and farther, deeper into the ocean; but he turns back a little each time - just to get the sweet taste of each grain of her.

He drives her crazy by the depth to which he goes. The vulnerable sand: she can hardly withstand him! And now she starts to beckon him, hoping it isn't too late. A part of her goes with him in a swirling frenzy but she knows she can't stop him.

The lull before the storm; she settles to the bottom, amid the shells and crustaceans that offer little comfort, and waits. And now and now she waits.

.

The desert and the river - part II: The Tree and the Ocean

.

She hangs at the precipice, almost falling in. For centuries she has stood there; and for centuries, she has been contemplating the depths of the waves that hit at the foot of the cliff. The depths. By now her roots have grown so deep that there's no chance of what appears to be inevitable.

He returns to her again and again. The urge to touch her - know her - overpowers him, and he leaves the psychedelic depths of the ocean to crash at her feet, get absorbed into the soil, and reach deep to her warm roots. Sometimes he goes wild and ravishes her passionately; sometimes he storms at her; sometimes he soothes her with his gentle rythmic cooing.

She closes her eyes and listens to the familiar sound of the crashing waves: he crashes and he recedes, he crashes and he recedes.

.

where the river meets the desert

She has lain barren and drifting for centuries. The desert sand. She drifts aimlessly from sand-dune to sand-dune, moulded into erotic curves by the winds. She's chaste, virgin, shy. She's young, restless and longing. Sometimes she's hard, cracked, parched earth where a stream or a field used to be. A thousand lives lie dormant in her womb. She conceals the secrets of civilizations buried deep in her breast.

He emerges from ancient glaciers, pure and determined. The river. He flows with a fury over mountains, cuts through rocks and falls over ridges. He's restless, energetic and penetrating. He's young, virile and potent. Sometimes he loses his way, drifts aimlessly, searching. He carries with him memories of unexplored lands and deep mysterious forests. He conceals the spirits of a thousand wise men in his depths.

The river flows into the desert and they both know they will never be the same again. He flows over her, exploring her curves for a while until she learns how to guide him and he understands what she's worth. She gives him purpose. He gives her meaning. Together, they're pregnant with potential.

With him, she becomes the sedate soil of the plains. He becomes the calm, tame river, the canals, and the streams. She contains him. He enriches her. Together they are the fertile fields and the soft potter's clay. They become a home, a land, a country. A place to rest. The trees, the birds, the bees and man turn to them with hope, with a prayer.

She's no longer barren. He's no longer searching.