I judge all seasons by the clock,except winters. Winters, when the Sun, peaks through my blinds unable to make up its mind, on whether to roost within the cosy comfort of my old, rust coloured Persian carpet, which has weathered many seasons and many storms. It stands instead like an old love, waiting by the door, unsure of its welcome. Winters, when my little ginger cat, will hopscotch through patches of sunlight as it wanes and waxes through my living room windows. I can tell the passage of time by the way he expands or contracts himself, as though a wayward elastic band, hydrated only by the sun. Winters, When my mind inexplicably wants to travel in search of sugarcane fields, that remind me of dappled sunlight. My body however is sweetly lethargic, the blanket at my feet is the gentlest of cobwebs, making me want to nest, even as the heart wanders, held in thrall of sun-drenched memories.
About the poet:
Renjini Rajagopalan is a lawyer and a policy wonk. An introvert, she can be usually found in coffee shops devouring a good book while drinking copious amounts of coffee. She loves penning poetry, and some of her previous works can be found at Indian Ruminations, LiveWire and the Brown Girl Magazine. She also loves cats, bangles, monsoons, and chicken shawarma (in no particular order) and lives rent free at @renjpens on Instagram.