To Autumn
All appear denuded
When you set in;
Forests, hills, rivers, winds and
The nymphs.
Even the angels look disrobed, and
Seem lying spread-eagled on barren clouds,
Sans their birthrights;
The luminous crowns.
On one of your bare branches,
My poetry perches, reminiscing
Spring days, in a mirage of
Dewy images cringed by summer heat, and
Under your pale sun
My Shakespearian forehead
Reflects thawing metaphors, in anticipation of
Winter verses, surprising the muse
With make-believe shivering, occasionally,
With no offence to your grey indifference.
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