A Red Autumn

 

We don’t call our autumn, ‘Fall’.

It’s soft, fragrant

like a mother’s caress,

almost a blurred white in hue.

It is rather a being

with two dove wings.

When it touches us

with one,

the green fields

sprout their wings of

silken Kans grass

and begin to sway,

as if to join

the milky clouds in sail.

Sheuli flowers,

the die-drop beauties

drop all night

leaving their sighs

in the heavy

sweet scented air.

While the other wing,

touches to bless us

with cool, sequined nights,

owl songs, a softer sun,

dewy grass, day’s foggy eye.

Full grown crops

wait silently

to break their tie

with mother earth.

The Neem tree

prepares its mind

to bare its soul,

to let go

of its weary, sleepy leaves,

and to rest in relief.

This autumn

eighteen coffins from Uri*

reached home

safely.

*18 Indian soldiers were killed in a militant attack at Uri, Kashmir. Terrorists from neighboring Pakistan still keep trying infiltration bids. May be it’s a price India is paying for never ever being an aggressive country, a misfit in today’s world. Whenever India sent someone abroad it was always with message of Peace and Love from the days of the Buddha to the very recent times of the 19th century. She has been like this for the last 5ooo years and has seen the rise and fall of many a mighty empire.

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Equinox, Equator @ Poets United