I dream of a home in hills,
Amidst steep, scary and lush heights.
Overlooking a view of fir, pine, and rhododendron trees,
Along with breathtakingly solemn and resolute deodars.
With him whose omnipresence regulates the soft murmur of my heart.
Its cadence becomes upbeat with his arrival in the house,
And sunrise turns into perennial golden.
While sunsets are always a fecund gray.
Seasons there alternate between mild summers, monsoons, and winters,
An unkempt garden contains wild roses, coffee, and stinging nettles.
Only sound that prevails in the house is crackle of logs in fireplace,
And chirping of snow-finches on a distant hill forest.
He weaves a web of immersive conversations,
And antagonises me to amuse himself
I then sulk for his unwavering beliefs,
Heated arguments then metamorphose into his soft kisses.
Since the sky is clear blue, it is blithe May
A fire of cherry and plum flowers has engulfed nearby gardens.
Mist and dark clouds now hover over vales,
As moisture-laden wind foretell the arrival of torrential rain.
Days are now shorter and we are stronger.
He adds more logs into the central fire of house,
As I watch him in naive innocence to offer cornucopia of love.
The day then dusks with the maze of his whispers.
He is all-pervasive and subliminal in this house.
In my refrigerator in the form of cheese he craves,
While in washing-machine he takes the form of
dirty laundry from his last basketball game.
It is a gradual yet implausible fabric of life with him,
Designs in which are floral, abstract, and variegated.
And vignettes are of time spent with his friends and mates,
Incredible to be here in my dearest home on the hills.