Spring

Has spring sprung yet?

Has it crept along the vines of forgotten old houses?

How much longer till shadows show up on footpaths,

and I can linger and listen to more than my own muffled coldness?

When will walks along the canal,

not just be a mad rush to get somewhere warmer,

but a sauntering respite from windowless rooms.

Can I now dream,

of longer days to live and write,

of blank pages bathed in sunlight,

with more time to dawdle before the day dwindles away?

Prashamsa Manchiraju