Friday, April 25, 2008


Fall, they call it here.
If you are not given to subtleties
You would think
Of something colossal
Coming down impressively
And hitting the ground.
Like empires, may be.
But it is actually dry
Brown leaves
Sashaying with great abandon,
Flirting even,
With confused air
Before landing daintily
On gentle ground.
Then arhythmic human feet
Crush them down
Just as, perhaps,
They've always done.