Sunday Poem By Amita Roy

THE FIRST NORWESTER

Clouds in clusters pile up
a drop of water on window pane
falls like pristine dew
soon another drop
then another.

The parched earth a mendicant
awaits, intrigued by the prelude
gusts of wayward wind chase
gasping leaves, they spiral up
in eddies of scorched dust
glad to be freed
from the sizzling bed.

Fangs of lightning intersect
frenzied horizon, defy medley of
swaying swashing trees
Nature in tossing spree
showers blessings on
outstretched blistered palm.

The patter intensifying in unison
with incensed gale
earth quenches its thirst-
lull descends
a curtain drops
to the elemental show.

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