The mornings are a bit colder now
as a slight chill greets us everyday.
Whatever remains of our oneness with nature
the instinct of it, never fails us to tell
that the direction of winds have changed.
Summer mornings are brighter, warmer
but this is a dryer, whiter hue.
A sense of truth prevails in the air
as it announces someone’s arrival
someone whom we know very dearly
someone who would soon come and bless us
and when she leaves, would take with her this season
letting the winter wave its wand.
The sun is truly golden now
shining just like a king
its rays are strong
but somewhere they have the touch
of a tender warmness
just enough, to keep the fire glowing.
A strange stillness rests in the air
as empty playgrounds and lonely terraces; the treasures of this season
sing this secret hymn, joyfully
under a blue sky and many a white clouds.
A peaceful silence with an ardent restlessness is the beauty of this season.
So still yet so alive.
I feel the very conflict of my being
ushered in by the breeze
which carries with it the sweet faint smell of Shiuli
which touches some deep cord of my heart.
I stand and think and philosophise
“Oh! What is it that is happening to me?”
It is as if my soul has found some deeper level of peace
and yet at some other deeper level it is searching for an unknown truth.
A struggle rests in the air
glorious, golden just like the sun,
for there is something that pulls me here
in empty places in golden afternoons
so peaceful and wise
What is this poem that my soul yearns to write?
Between summer and autumn
between peace and doubt
here, this season is when I’m truly alive
afraid yet fearless, scattered yet contained,
glorious yet imperfect, imperfect thus glorious
both in spirit and in heart.
here, this season, this time of the year, always.
It does not have a name, this season
neither does my soul.
It may not even be a season
but this is surely an emotion
closer to my heart and closest to my being.
What is the full meaning, I do not know
but know , that it changes and with time.
The days are becoming shorter now
and the evenings are different yet familiar.
Familiar in spirit but different in voice.
A new season ushers in and brings with it a new spirit.
The old heart keeps on beating, fervently.
( Poem and Photograph)