The thick spoons of water droplets/ dazzling from up above/ How they pierce my eye/ its golden rim/ its dusty lashes/ This Corona of glistening spit/ the cloud’s intestine emptied into a hazy sunrise on the cement/ The grass hides its wetness/ like it hides all things/ forever green is its lip as if sworn to an endearing lover/ The balcony door is a split in the middle/ like two lives apart/ Here, outside, in this fresh air, I am a whole, a whole not a fraction/ subsumed in the display of dust and drops/ I fold them between my thumbs and legs and lips and nostrils/ I fold it/ fold it all/ and unfold it seconds later…There is no purpose to this/ It is an exercise in rhythm/ of belonging/ After all, everything is whistling/ Can’t you hear it?

– Aakriti Kuntal