My toy green ship and its yellow balloon.

Green of peace. Green of sal treeline. Yellow

of faith. Yellow of a child's smile. In a water

tank it moved on the ripples. My tiny fingers

made with alacrity. My forefeet elevated to see

magic happen. The day was another good day.

Skies formless without autumn clouds. Pink frock

 running down my knees like perceptions in the 

shadows of rituals. What was time for me then?

 Suddenly a crow swooped down. Pricked the

balloon. I scared held my utterance like caged

hankies in pockets. My ship sank. The ripples

dwindled. With zero tolerance for stillness. What

I remember is a grief draped in a day of childhood 

life. That moment I was reduced to a thing for 

which there is no metaphor for. Like a blank page.