I think that all the flowers
are miniature replicas of the sun.
The stems of some flowers
exude milk when they are plucked,
they paint the preying fingers in white,
just like it snows in some places
when the sun is plucked from their skies.
The night is the flavor of the moon.
Sometimes the moon is my sponge pad,
I touch it with my fingers,
moisten them with moon-color,
and then I forget to turn the pages.
Sometimes I hide the sun and the moon
placing them inside the pouches of my clouds,
for I own the stencils
which custom-shape my clouds.
© Harrisham Minhas
Published in Muse India, 2014