Monsoon Magic: Last Rains © Poem by Roann Mendriq

The skies are blue, at last again,
Like freshly washed new porcelain;
Cotton clouds skim into scuds,
Like bubbles float in soapy suds.

The clear nightsky awash with stars,
Brimming like a bowl of flowers;
As the morning sun begins to beam,
The glassy skies begin to gleam.

Washed and watered, always tended,
Pruned and weeded, gently mended;
Every tree, a lush sweet spray,
All the earth, one big bouquet.

Watch the seasons, thus proceeding,
At last the monsoons are receding.