Summer in India isn't just a season—
It's a feeling, a memory, a melody of warmth.
It's the season of:
Mangoes and juicy watermelons,
Beaches kissed by golden sunlight,
Pickles drying under the harsh sun,
Ice creams and colorful icegolas,
Breezy cotton and floral prints,
School holidays and family vacations,
Power cuts and candlelit evenings,
Sleeping under starry skies on the terrace,
Holiday homework and handwritten pages, Internships, summer camps, and endless stories.
A season where time slows down and hearts warm up.

शाळेच्या पहिल्या दिवशी न्हवती अक्कल
लावता येत न्हवते साधे चड्डीचे बक्कल
तरी निघालो शाळेला वयाच्या तिसऱ्या वर्षानंतर
हातात बाटली, खिशात रुमाल, आणि पाठीवर दप्तर

शाळेत अनेक गोष्टी शिकलो
इंग्रजीतली ABCD शंभरदा घोकलो
मार्क्स मात्र सर्वांना हवे होते पुरे
रट्टा मारून केलेल्या अभ्यासाने मेंदू मात्र कोरे

दिवस गेले, महिने गेले, गेली खूप वर्षं
दहावी आली हे कळताच गेला जेवणातील सर्व हर्ष
दहावीबद्दल घातली सर्वांनी मनात भीती
घरचे म्हणाले, "अभ्यास कर, आपली नाही शेती"

अभ्यास केला दिवस आणि रात्र
MARKS च्या नादात विसरलो सारे मित्र
सोडवले प्रॅक्टिस पेपर्स आणि लिहिलेली जर्नल्स सर्व
अभ्यास पूर्ण झाल्याचा मात्र अजिबात नव्हता गर्व

परीक्षा दिली, RESULT आला
सर्व मित्रांना फोन केला
मार्क्स मला चांगले पडलेले
CONGRATS च्या मेसेजने सर्व CHATS भरलेले

मार्क्स चांगले मिळाल्याने चांगल्या कॉलेजमध्ये झाली ADMISSION
कोणी IAS तर कोणी ठेवलेलं ENGINEERING चं VISION
कॉलेजच्या पहिल्या दिवशी वाटलं की आपल्या कडे होती खूप सारी अक्कल
कारण माझेच मी लावलेले माझ्या चड्डीचे बक्कल...

I miss the euphony of birds at dusk’s soft kiss,
Their songs once crowned the Sun in fleeting bliss.
  Memory stirs — a street scene veiled in light,
  A bygone day reborn in twilight’s bite.

The winding road concluded at the tree’s embrace,
Where stood the Red Box, keeper of time’s trace.
  Forged by decree, a carmine sentinel still,
  Now fallen silent on the village hill.

In boyhood’s wanderings down that humble street,
I’d pause and wonder what secrets it might keep.
  I’d peer within when the Postman came to claim —
  Envelopes slipped like whispers with no name.

At dusk, that vision pierced me with its pain —
A relic ruined by wind and rust and rain.
  Creepers wound their wreaths around its frame,
  While lizards skittered, flies laid siege in vain.

One day, they’ll mark it — a relic of our place,
A story sealed in rust and creeping lace.
  Yet when I think of that red box grown old,
  A boy’s soft longing in my chest takes hold.

Time races on — we too shall find release,
And wish that Red Box might just rust in peace.

Have you rested
on an old blanket
‘neath the big pine trees
feeling a warm breeze
and the ****** and dips
of the needle-laden ground?

Have you eavesdropped on the birds
as they gossip
woo
brag
calling amongst
the sticky pine needles?

Have you spied on the ants
on their no-nonsense march
or counted wispy clouds
that lazily float by
laying on your back
on a scratchy, faded blanket?

Have you ever marveled
at the wide, wide blue
that’s neither near nor far
feeling time pause
under pointy branches
lost in restful ease
‘neath the big pine trees?

© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.

As the days slip 
Into chill-filled air,
The watermelon dayz
They seem long gone.
Even with the degrees
Still in the moderate thirties,
I long for those hot, stuffy days
Where we twirled our towels
On our heads and smiled, seed-filled,
And none could distinguish where
Sweet and drippy watermelon grins
Started, and the sweat and slippery long ended.

In the woods where the wind hums lullabies,
under branches that brush the sky,
lives a bear with a belly full of honey
and a heart stitched in childhood memory.

Winnie.
The. Pooh.
Not just a bear—
but the keeper of our early years,
the echo of laughter between storybook tears,
the soft-spoken truth in bedtime fears.

His house—
tucked under roots,
marked “Mr. Sanders” though we never asked why—
wasn’t just a home,
it was a world.

A mailbox too big, a door too small,
a doormat worn thin from welcoming all—
Tigger’s bounce, Piglet’s squeak,
Eeyore dragging his tail through each week.
A roof that knew the rhythm of rain,
walls that absorbed every growing pain.

And maybe we grew—
our knees outgrew scrapes,
our dreams got new shapes,
but there’s something about that crooked door
that still fits us,
even now.

Because Pooh’s house
was never made of wood and stone.
It was carved in imagination,
lined with pages and patience,
sealed in the syrup of simpler times.

A childhood shrine.
Where days had no clocks
and the only map we needed
was drawn in crayon and hope.

So here’s to the Hundred Acre home—
to the way it held us
when we didn’t know we needed holding.
To the bear who asked for nothing
but a little more honey,
and gave us
a little more magic.

I go back there
every time the world forgets
how to be kind.

Pooh reminds me.
Even now.
And maybe that's the thing about childhood—
it never leaves.

It just waits at the edge of the woods
with a rumbling belly,
and arms
wide
open.

Welcome !!

This is your house,
A door little tall,
The pet mittle spouse.

See ,
Those ten eyes ,
Lids some closed
The view is suffice,
Clatter of wood ,
Thud due wind,
And curtains fright.

Please make your way inside !!

This is the home in which you reside ,
This is where ,
you slept a myriad of nights.
Yes , this is the veranda of
Your childhood sunbaths,
Memory of joy,
Playing hard as mad .

Ooo,
It's your room,
Look at those doodles
On the walls,
Sketches of sun and crows
Signing your name ,
Across.

It's the TV you saw growing,
The fridge which colour's been fading
The bathroom's door which been
Cranking ,

(Joyful laugh)

Come beside,
Let's go on the roof ,
Take a breath
Let's move in a loop,
Sip of fresh air
Then make a move.

Reminisce the sunset ,
& The glare of moon ,
The panorama of lush green
silvered by lune.

This is your home
Not just a brick or stone ,
You spent your life here
Not just a shade of mere ,

This is a sweater of
Wool of will
The sweater that
has to be worn even
It's summer ,
It is an antique which
Only you can weave ,

So tell me ,

Why do you want to leave ?

i.

It’s the late 1990′s and you’re a kid

You’re skipping down the path in the garden called memory lane

Holding your mother’s hand

Suddenly you trip and fall

You see the lacerations across your knee that sting for days when you try to shower

For the path in the garden of memory lane has tripped you over by your nimble child legs

Wounding you temporarily

ii.

It’s the present day and you’re a grown woman

You’re walking down the rocky road  called adulthood, wringing your own hands together in frustration

Your husband was found dead in a crashed car with another woman

Drunk driving and infidelity do not mix

You don’t see lacerations anywhere

Nor feel the ache of wounds that sting for days when you try to shower

For the rocky road whose name is adulthood has tripped you over by your last legs

Wounding your heart instead

For life

Childhood address remembered
all these years. Used now as
a password, a code, a credit card number:

the place itself a mist
of memories, light palpable
in the smoked filled air

Lawn springing downhill,
steeply impossible to mow,
steps winding up to a green door
as if in a dream.

garage below where is used to hide
among small dark thoughts
hanging from their webs
barely discerned in the dust
of time.

That’s where it all began
the endless internal battle,
the wasps’ nest of emotions,
the constant buzzing of the mind’s
heavy present that always
“seems to fail this bubble of a heart.”