"I'm not an English garden."

Just forty five days till I depart.
These days are rich with life.

Twisting messy wind dried hair after rainshine leads down golden purple hued train tracks, and the tip tops of trees glow with light, white stallions rear up in clouds and race across an indigo sky, puddles reveal upside down skylines and the sky changes dresses like an insecure girl from magenta to scarlet, and giving up to rose. Old fields that swim with childhood memories, growing up with me-- the ordinariness of softball and soccer games, of first loves and friendships, of a summer job fading into the cool autumn , blankets and cups of hot cocoa-- memories lively as ever. Candle-lit picnics, framed knee to knee, with jeera, masala, and curry spiced tongues, mint leaves on water, autumn leaves in our hair, and the scent of fresh bread baked into our skin as night awakens and the storm rolls out.

and thoughts are heavy, pressing inward to shape my heart.