Gulmohur

Gulmohur
The warmest of the grey is
flirting with rain, deepening the shadows
as they fall on the earth;
the moisture glistens;
the clouds' edges sparkle alive--
 a signal for the peacock to dance.
The sky, pensive, stoops over,
spreading  thousands of arms of love
over the meadows, trees,
and the curious blossoms
of the Gulmohur yearning for the season's metamorphosis.
And the Gulmohur watches the magic hand
of the first of the season's shower,
caressing the fiery red of the innocent blossom,
standing on  tip-toe, rising high.
The Gulmohur knows the moment.
 It has always known,
the sight of the floor, soon to be covered with the fallen blossom,
fallen too early at the end of the ripe summer.
 The manifesting of passion
is the beginning of the end of its blossom