A phalanx of brown-bereted
mushrooms
spear out from the
bunkers of tree-trunks
as thunder bugled the sleeping soldiers
to salute the raingod’s marching;
Diligent winds sweep the earth
hurriedly
as amateur brooks beat
a thousand cymbals
to be redeemed by an orchestra
of river choirs.
Forgotten frog poets
of three seasons
finally gather
a mandatory audience
of pricey-feathered wings
and warm-gowned cottage families
sipping the warmth of brewed raindrops;
Budding silver-scale poets
go about in circles looking for
metaphoric interpretations.
Soldiers and their guns
listen in hovels
roofed by polythene blues
reminiscent of
the same summer sky.
Dusty flame-tree leaves
shower bright
on par with
peacock feathers
all set
for an indigenous
rain dance.
As I behold and peruse,
I have absorbed
that poetry
like rain
supplies for every season.
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