Touch-me-not plants had a role to play.

Summers are not what they used to be.
When a pony-tailed girl with a punch serenaded in shorts, wildly running in a beaver of touch-me-not plants.
When mangoes did not induce pimples.
Summers were different then.
I remember, in the old fort, when time was consumed by idyllic banter, and when evenings receded into unpretentious excitement.
When buses were red, and so were telephone booths.
When taxis were royalty,
And share autos amusing.
And the baby seats, that you were so reluctantly made to sit on, even more so.
When cinema meant whistles in single-screen theaters.
And the beach was where, your mother never let you be tempted by the water, lest you drown.
And a coke placated your empty heart.
When running around in a towel was pardonable.
I think the touch-me-not plants had a role to play.
Their importance only grew, not in the mere presence of it, but it in mind.
They slowly meandered into the summery afternoons.
While the pony-tailed girl, stood confused, and bewildered.
Change took place.