A touch too aware, forever and always.

Of the weight on my shoulders and the pull of gravity, dragging me towards the ground;
Of my indomitable soul and spirit, that keeps me upright, nonetheless;

Of my throbbing head, and shaky knees and tiring feet;
Of the oxygen and fire and energy that move them and me;

Of the sweat that runs down my back, and my breath that becomes shallow with each step;
Of the Sun shining bright over my head- a little too hot, a little too stubborn;

Of the tall grass that breathes sweet warm vapors around my heels;
Of the bees that flit in them noisily, and take advantage of the gardener’s sleep;

Of the young souls who know not of fatigue, but get into mud-holes and trouble with a flair;
Of the old, who know of it too much, and are decidedly and firmly, not there;

Of the broken pavements that will never see repair, and the gravel and glass on the path;
Of the construction sites I dodge on my way, and the nightmarish litter of their aftermath;

Of the cats that scurry as I approach and those few precious who purr through their play;
Of the scent of summer that chokes the air, and makes me nostalgic for my home four blocks away;

Of the incoherency of the words that churn in my brain, and my writer’s block still on the mend;
Of my body and my heart, my mind, and my muscle, all of them at their tether’s end;

Of nature and people, of me and the other, of flora and fauna, of impulse and dormancy;
Of the street-smarts and the noble fools;

I will be, it seems, until the end of my times,
a touch too aware.

Simran Kohli

2-C, BJ(MC)