There’s Fall in the air. It’s time the viridity returns
to the bark, to the stalk, and to the spirit lying deep
Within the living cells. The melodies playing before eyes
till now, retreat in endless cycles like winding on a spool.
Winter comes to an end. A whirlwind of withered leaves.
A pale anemic flux. Trees standing like the porcelain jars
arrayed by the wayside. And the Pethodia flowers seeming like
flower vases amidst old, stained brassware.
What do you pray folding your hands before
every receding season? Why do you watch so keenly
every sensuous visual? After all, isn’t your angst behind sieving Time
With fervor only to find a new metaphor for your poem?
స్పందించండి