Whispers of Summer

When the sun begins to linger,

and the skies forget to sleep,

summer tiptoes in—

not loud, but soft,

like a secret the breeze keeps.

It’s in the rustle of mango trees,

the golden dusk that doesn’t rush.

It hums through bamboo wind chimes,

and paints cheeks with a coral blush.

Children laugh barefoot in the lanes,

with sticky hands and melting ice.

Old radios crackle forgotten songs,

and kites claim their slice of skies.

Grandmother fans herself on the porch,

telling stories of rains that waited.

Somewhere, first love writes itself

in the silence between breath and heartbeat.

The whispers of summer

are not always loud—

They hide in the corners of time,

in letters never sent,

and promises we kept only in our minds.

They murmur from attic boxes,

from photographs curling with age.

A smile caught mid-laughter,

a mango slice mid-bite—

eternity held in a single page.

Some summers teach us how to stay.

Others, how to let go.

And the quiet ones?

They whisper the loudest—

of all the things we’ll never fully know.

So if you find yourself still,

one dusky evening with jasmine in bloom—

listen.

The summer is speaking.

Not in heat,

but in hush.

And if you’re lucky—

you’ll hear it say your name.