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
sumanar/lekha 
