Our Hose
WRITTEN BY AYESHA ASAD
The rusted hose
drips a melody,
tap-tap-tap onto our patio.
It groans, withering,
devoid of playmates who
indent its spigot with paled fingernails,
with lusty shrieks permeating
its air. How it yearns
for our careless fingertips,
to spray and stoop,
a secretive language known
only through shadowed promises.
Yet for all its mourning,
it remains – like a luminary,
or the North Star, indelible against its
hazy shroud,
a chain-link, prosaic yet ethereal,
an amber stone preserving
its own alluring childhood –
the one I shared.