amber leaf falling,
autumn carries it farther
than the branch can dream
Maples crown the ridge.
Light stains every pane.
A chimney exhales.
Wrens stitch dusk homeward.
One bright moment lingers.
Night gathers the thread.
d r i f t i n g in a quiet morning,
the clouds gather light,
softening edges of the sky
with pale silver breath
that folds into itself~
slow and tender,
carrying dawn
across the treetops
in one bright wandering sigh
before they thin again
into open air and
depart
Late spring light drifts across the room,
a cornflower wash that settles on everything
the way dust settles on keepsakes
no one means to forget.
You lift the mirror,
its edge still cool from the windowsill,
and the glass catches a glimmer
that doesn’t stay still~
it f l i c k e r s, almost shy,
as if deciding whether to show you
what it remembers.
Your reflection w a v e r s,
not dramatically, just enough
to remind you that memory
rarely arrives in straight lines.
It comes in small echoes,
soft ones, the kind that lean
toward you when the afternoon quiets
and you finally have time
to notice what stays.
lifting
softly
from the
pond’s still
mirror—thin
threads of dawn
unspooling into
quiet air, rising
in a pale column
of breath that learns
how to become light
as the forest listens
to morning begin again
Like termites, grief crept in and quietly grew,
A smiling face hid what the heart went through.
A lifetime crowded with memories untold,
I spoke just one name—and my heart lost control.
A dream stayed alive in my eyes for so long,
Till the fire of your memory burned it all wrong.
The branch where hope had built a nest so bright,
Was swallowed by autumn and stripped of its light.
Among those I called mine, I still stood alone,
As every soul changed in the molds time had shown.
The rain washed away every face's disguise,
And a city of deception changed before my eyes.
Then came the miracle born from the art I knew:
The pain in my heart became words that rang true.
Sagar, what a strange twist this life had revealed—
One lie brought the heat that left my whole home peeled.
© Sagar Haider Abbasi
There is a quiet corner
for the wandering~
a place that gathers itself
just beyond the usual path.
Light settles there differently,
not bright, not dim,
just enough to soften the edges
of whatever arrives.
A single chair of shadow,
a small drift of air
that carries no urgency,
only the faint scent
of something unhurried.
Here, even thoughts
walk more slowly,
as if the ground beneath them
has learned to hold its breath.
Nothing calls you forward.
Nothing pulls you back.
It is simply a place
that waits without expectation~
a still pocket of the world
where the wandering
can rest without explanation.
moonlight mends by stitching together the torn edge of the wor.d
tension sneaks up behind me like a prankster
tapping lightly just to watch me jump~
thrilled to startle me.
amber leaf falls free;
the branch remembers holding
what cannot return.
The river keeps no record of the vanished light,
only a widening path of amber where evening carries that light.
One leaf releases from its branch and enters the river’s current of light.
Even the reeds bow briefly, then straighten, guided by approaching light.
The blue heron lifts from the shoreline, winged with departing light,
while I follow the riverbank, gathering what remains of light.
But somewhere in the braid of the day’s dissolving light
I notice the powerful presence of light.
Between memory and gratitude, there is light.
My mother's voice survives in an old room of light.
A friend's laughter crosses decades inside a chamber of light.
A poem waits at the edge of silence, listening for light.
Suddenly, I understand: the world does not contain light.
The world is revealed by light.
The heart is remembered by light.
The soul is awakened by light.
And every good poem leaves us carrying a little more light.
Amber river, evening gold.
Leaf-boats travel west.
One star blooms among still reeds.
Night keeps what day spared.
An armadillo leaned on a fence,
too wilted to muster a proper defense.
His cowboy hat slouched
like a biscuit overbrowned,
his dignity having long since left town.
The relentless sun blazed down with cheer,
roasting the pasture for the fifteenth month this year.
Grasshoppers staggered.
Mesquite trees panted.
Even the buzzards looked disenchanted.
The dillo squinted west and sighed,
I reckon I'm medium-well inside.
One more degree
and y'all will see
roadside jerky where I used to be."
A bead of sweat rolled down his snout.
He watched it fall. He watched it sizzle.
"Autumn," he grumbled,
"has missed her exit.
She's probably lost near Abilene."
The fence post offered little aid.
The shade was merely shade-adjacent.
He tipped one claw
to his hat and said,
"If anybody spots October,
tell it I'm awaitin'."
Always second
Never first
Always an option
Never chosen
Always an acquaintance
Never a friend
Always okay
Never enough
Always the listener
Never the listened to
Always good.
Never the greatest.
Why is it always that I stand in someone else’s shadow?
Why am I always hiding behind the group?
Following along the the grass while everyone else walks along the sidewalk
Always asking what happened? while everyone else already is over it
Never included in the secrets
Never invited out
Never heard
Never wanted.
Why is it that I can’t ever seem to keep up?
Can’t fit into the group completely
Never feeling included
Maybe it is my own doing
Maybe it is my fault
I have different interests
Different hobbies
Maybe I am not pretty enough
The scale is too high to be defined as attractive
That must be it
Never enough.
A squirrel in autumn hollered, “Dang!
This heat’s got my tail in a tang.
It’s ninety-eight degrees, y’all~
that ain’t autumn, not at all!
Where’s sweata weather in Texas?” he did pang.
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