Autumn's sweet hurting
First day of autumn,
Far more sacred almost
Than my own birthday.
For on this day,
A long time ago, I fell in love with
A breeze falling from your locks.
Each year, when this day comes around,
I draw the well-sealed cork from a jar
And let the lamps burn till dawn
While I raise a hundred toasts
In memories of springs and summers.
Autumn is a fiction
Until you live in it, and
It is too late to relearn seasons
Once they set in.
But once in a while,
A few young leaves fall with dry ones
And ask questions to old ferns like me
About shapes and sizes of love,
Grafting spring dreams on grey boughs.
You deemed it sin
To hope for what is not allowed in fall,
When it pours out harvests and
Short numb days recur.
But you'll not stop me from revelling on this day,
Wearing lively green masks,
Which tolerate sky, rain, and my doorstep
While hurting me.
Copyright © Ibohal Kshetrimayum | Year Posted 2018