The Blue House, Dragonflies And Some Memories

Last night I visited the blue house
That haunts me in silence now and then.
The house that was witness to the grinning words
That the child threw to the old woman.
Little words that could often be termed as bilge,
Sometimes, humming that was out of tune
Were interspersed in the thousand words
That flew like lime colored dragonflies in the misty mornings
When, under the early sun, the dew drops formed
Petite rainbows in front of the child’s toes
That touched the bows of rains and hues
To form zigzags on the green grass.

Last night was entrapped in those zigzags
The zigzags, the mazes of dreams
The old house, the Gulmohar tree that painted the blue house red
In the resumption of spring.
Spring brought so much color
To the hearts of the child and the woman.
Both seemed to float together in an eternal flight of fantasy.
True, the old woman traversed the enigmatic trajectory;
The child was not that lucky;
Her joyride came to a halt all of a sudden,
As if, a scissor had cut the thread that held them together.

Why o why do you come in my dreams?
Yes, the blue house, I am asking you.
Should I wheedle you to efface your indelible memories?
How many times should I confess that I miss you?
How many times o how many times will you make my existence impossible,
O dilapidated blue house of my dead grandmother?

-the shepherdess