Hari Smith Holms

Taking all the flowers
and insects in it,
I kept the bunch
in a vase.
I never have seen
the truth of you,
but guessed the wind
of heart, the blow.
Once spoken words
became heavier,
I rummaged the mail-box,
I couldn't deceive
my felt-feelings.
It wasn't you,
nor your shadow.
Yet, I set the vase
near my home's window.
Pour water
and left it
to the air,
to the sky,
to a road
(where it leads
I don't know) .
Who tells what,
don't come
on the way to
my fantasy.
It goes
like camphor,
as a page
once read,
half in mind,
rest in the wind.
The insects
also won't
love to stay
in discomfort.
So is your memory,
wants to evaporate...
But, some insist to stay,
Still, in inbox.
Never to be
deleted.......