Leftover Seeds

I know you don’t like jewelry,
But will you take a string of beads
Of little moments, full of Life,
Like fruity Life’s leftover seeds?

The fogging mask of eyeglasses,
Uppended glass of ice on face,
The twinkling stars on roasted corn,
The lemon gulped without a trace,

The poking of the mayonnaise,
The red-sauce mehndi on the palm,
The shall-we-take-that-city-bus,
The railway bench of waiting calm,

The twiddling thumbs in chilling breeze,
The fattened kittens on the fence,
The optical illusion pond,
The books with signs in brushing pens

The string will only grow with time,
And on the days we rage as storms,
We’ll thumb these beads like rosary,
Until our hugs again are warm.

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