May is running out of days
The gulmohar flaunts scarlet remnants of its flowers,
the ones left untouched by rain,
a little bird sings before the mist rolls in
and the afternoon shower comes.
A hot cup of evening tea,
you call a friend on the phone
but she doesn't answer
Cup in hand, you sit by the window
and watch the sun's last rays
light up trees in the distance
entangled in white wisps of fog.