The house is colder now
as autumn sheds its leaves
the push-pull falls wildly beneath the plows
along the edges of the gutters and eaves.
perhaps because the house is emptied
of all the faded color hues
when your heart lit the entryways
to the lifetimes shared, here
with you.
I watch the color palette change
chlorophylls leaking out in the icy cool
carotenoids producing yellow, orange, and brown
the corn mazes shriveling in dry stalked spools,
the old weathered maple blushing to scarlet red frowns,
the great oak in its russet brown undress
the aspen and poplar shaking yellow fringed gowns,
autumn chill alive and stirring north and west
within the colors spilled down.
I feel it in my body
my bones and muscle ache with each step
closing door and window with revelry
to the change to which I become adept,
holding the season's lost memories
tight upon my face of laughter and tears wept
a last embrace within the season's pace
and final goodbye
to the magic had. with all its grace.
They'll pity you, or, think you're a bad a**,
as they sheathe you, roughly, embodiment
of your presence, thus the Witches' Hair typecasts,
in essence, the strangleweed, acts like ground rent,
nature's parasite plant, sheath-like its host.
The trade-off, lacking chlorophylls, futures
sustained through these vampirish nuts and bolts.
Nature poised, parasite and host, assures
time without end for both species, whereto,
if one becomes an aggressor in the
course, whereby the other put a stop to,
shortsightedly, puts an end to theirs -- huh?
Witches Hair, combs sites for host aplenty,
as strangleweeds ghost life manifestly.
The chlorophylls have turned up for the date today
But deep blues of gloom in the green pot of clay
Pink sunshine lips have not kissed them of late
Incessant rain has left the plant saddening
Its friend a little boy works in the roadside tea stall
For want of money he chose to be a school dropout
He is anxious that the growing plant might wither out
Unrelenting monsoon has stopped it from growing
He shifts the green pot under a brightly burning electric lamp
Puts the pot on a bowl of water while softly caressing
The leaves with love opening the door of his lips
With smiling eyes the customers looking
Meanwhile clouds too have made way for the sun
But the boy has taken ill and the doctors say it's dengue
No money for treatment his parents can procure
They keep praying and the poor boy sinking
In spite of sunshine the plant withers again
Flickering flames at the bed cast long shadows
This quiet noon of winter
Enters softly my leaves
Puts on the chlorophylls
A wave disintegrates me
The quiet breaks free
The quiet breaks free
Uproar from the dark
Admonitions stark
Trauma in the tree
Comes back the noon
Comes back the noon
Fright, flight and night
Then the stars bright
And the golden nest
Tales in the pink chest
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