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Moon was not faraway. 
It rejected the evidence against the rhyme 
and proceeded to release 
the poem. 
 
The colored bracts of 
bougainvillea, fall solemnly, to kiss 
the grass. Spring was around 
the corner. 
 
Quizzing a stone, a dream 
crashes in my hands; 
becomes a tiger moth and 
settles on your lips. 
 
Future turns into a shell. 
I pick it up from the beach of time. 
Play with it for sometime and 
give it away to my offspring. 
 
It was the beginning. It was the end.