Somnolence

The patch of sunlight
Moving across the room
Alights on books heaped
On a table barely seen
’neath their weight,
Clothes strewn
O’er mismatched chairs,
Like kitten-battered
Balls of yarn,
A tousled head
Poking out the quilts,
Blinking, bleary-eyed.
“Please, five minutes more.
It’s too cold to move.”

A Graveyard of Leaves

Russet, saffron and scarlet,
Draped ’round the protruding roots,
A rustling carpet circling the trunk,
Crisp skeletons of the summer’s leaves—
Like some gory battlefield,
Naked corpses bloodstained,
Exposed bones crushed ’neath
The shod feet of intruders,
White maggots creeping out the wounds
To creep up the visitors’ ankles—
Crunching under children’s shoes.

Teardrops

The rain pooling in puddles
On the flooded street,
Mud-brown and cold,
Reflects in the bright eyes
Of the child clinging,
Tiny face thrust out the gaps,
Chubby fingers curled,
To the rusted grille,
Pieces flaking off,
Of her room,
Watching the rain
That she cannot play in.

The Gulmohur

The crescent branches
Bare all winter,
Wave green fans
In welcome
To the crows and sparrows,
All old, familiar friends,
Alighting on them,
Squabbling for space.
A single veiled bud unfurls,
Van-guard of the red army
Poised to invade.
The balmy breeze blows away
Winter cheer with winter blues,
And leaves me a tabula rasa,
New, untouched, hollow.