fleeting~

passing time

in between

warm sunbeams

and

bitter winds

scattered

picked up and carried away

to somewhere else

somewhere better

curling

and

twisting

and fading

to nothing

covering

the dying grass

soft shades

orange

yellow

red

a blanket

of silence

a whisper

of the winter to come.

No not like petals they aren’t delicate

they go with the flow

they are good listeners

they speak every language

observing how other things work

they are patient with their growth

and don’t fall for anyone

they are adaptable to change

you can see it on their skin

their wise age transforming them

they sacrifice and leave home

so another can grow in their place

sometimes they feed others who may be hungry

they know appreciation because seasons are short

some of them have the prettiest neighbors

but they don’t need a consort

they take a risk to learn how to fly

they have heaps of faith

they are immortal because they

let go of when their ready

do it all again come spring time.

The garden was isolated, in a lonely corner of a street on Khayaban-e-Roomi. I had driven all the way there to take a breath, to take it all in. I couldn’t breathe. My breath had stopped in the middle of my throat and I felt like someone was choking me hard, cutting off my air supply completely. Painful sobs made their way up my throat and I let it all out. I cried for what seemed like hours in the car. Anyone who must have seen me would imagine I had lost my senses. Maybe I had, I didn’t know. All I knew was that they were gone; my parents were gone... Images flashed through my mind: my mother lying near my bed, my father kneeling next to her. ‘They could be sleeping,’ the voice said, ‘don't wake them up!’

I didn’t.

The last thing I heard were sirens ringing in my ears and strange hands touching me all over. I don’t quite remember at what point I shrugged them all off, made my way towards my husband’s car and sped off into the distance.

Rust leaves crunched beneath my furry boots as I made my way towards the little garden, large bumblebees buzzing about the bright marigolds. It was a sight to behold, this garden. I always felt it held secrets of its own, having stood around for nearly a decade and still not having lost its earthy charm. Perhaps I was under a spell. Mum and Dad’s passing had cast a depressing blanket over everything I had hoped and dreamt of.

My gaze fell upon the sweet daisies, growing in a despondent corner of the garden. They looked simple and endearing, as they grew mutely under the shade of the banana tree, harsh sunlight cutting the plant into strips. Shielding my eyes from the piercing rays of the sun, my gaze climbed up the length of the tree. Its large, elephant-like leaves flapped around lazily in the wind and a bunch of small, yellow bananas stuck firmly underneath the leaves almost hidden from sight.

An eastern tiger swallowtail caught my eye as it fluttered across the garden, daintily perching itself atop the tea-pink petals of the champa flowers, growing on several different branches protruding from a rather thin trunk. As I walked closer, beautiful floral notes engulfed my senses and sent me deeper into the haven of thoughts I had created within my own mind.

The amaltaas tree was compelling to look at for a lack of better words. Its bark was a rough chocolate brown, dappled with spots of warm sunlight in various places. Among the vibrant, lime green leaves hung intricately woven strands of golden yellow flowers, that reminded me of chandeliers, fresh grapes and gleaming light bulbs, all thrown in a box and shaken up together. Thin, dark tubes descended from amongst the flowers, swaying silently in the autumn breeze.

I wished with all my heart that I could stay just a little while longer but I had to go to the hospital and sign away the documents. Any fragment of peace or joy I may have had inside of my heart at that moment dwindled away, only to be replaced with an empty hollow. I turned my back to the garden and walked off towards the car. Nothing ever stays forever, does it?

Like biting an apple.

In the first cool breeze.

The subtle, natural sound.

Of the first steps on leaves.

Like nature’s confetti.

In the midday sun.

The dried and the dead.

Off the trees they come.

Floating and twirling.

Twisting through air.

Hovering until they hit,

the pavement with care.

I take a bite and take a step.

Crunchy, crispy, clean.

Shedding the dead, to nourish the soil, and grow anew again.

Mist rose over the river at dawn

And hovered to kiss the still water

From the west or south blowing

The mystified wind came and caught her

And spun along winnowing

The mist from the water and lawn

On another day after the sun had flown high

The wind threshed a leaf from its place

To drift to those already stacked in frail spires

When did they fall? Oh, when did they grace

Bare ground with their crackling fire

And bid their adieu to the sky?

In the afternoon golden the wind skips along

Between carpet and drapery of leaves

By the edges of fields where the harvest still grows

While from above come the recitatives

Of the myriad wheeling and gathering crows

In the fullness of black-feathered throng

Even as the wind whispers and tumbles on past

The harvest comes swift on the generous plain

The lost wind will come searching between bereaved stalks

Where once was a crop, only stover remains;

Where life held her bounty, another now walks,

And winter is coming on fast.

The End

Time to leave

pack up and move

get up and go

At first we slowly change

unrecognizable to our past

we switch our shade

become breakable, at last

so we can crack

under the pressure of the world

and crunch

beneath the weight of heavy boots

and fall apart

with the changing seasons

We tumble lightly

limply

down below

and enter the world surrounding

It is blinded by our newness

our new maturity

our stiff fluidity

our beauty

our beautiful duplicity

for we are far more than we seem to be

only a few leaves linger on

the branches of the tree that

stands tall in my backyard

two months ago they were vibrant colors

of yellow and red and orange, only

now they're dull and dirty

devastated that they've faded over time

i tell them how beautiful they are, still

they cling onto the last few days of autumn

knowing that if they finally let go of

their branches, they'll be defeated and

forgotten until next year

the friends of theirs who have long given up

lay on the floor beneath them, mocking

them with change as they have no color left

only a shade of brown that crunches

under the footsteps of the people who await

winter

Everyone knows the telltale sound of leaves rustling on the ground. Kicked and piled up by small children. Many have fond memories of jumping into piles or throwing them at their friends. But the sound of leaves means something different to me. To me, it means that fall has arrived.

It’s been creeping up on us like a sinking feeling we don’t want to face. We reminisce in the beauties of the oranges and reds all while bundling up to brace the incoming cold.

The world hunches to face the cold and nature celebrates around us. It shakes its burden of leaves upon our feet and tells us it’s ours to deal with now.

Many embrace the change with open hearts and claim the simple joys of pumpkins and holidays. Others dismiss the season and claim it is only a second winter. Either way the leaves crawl their way into our home and into our hearts. Their image is one of fondness and happiness no matter your feeling on fall.

I hope to embrace this change even as I dismay over the loss of the greens and brightness that summer brings. As with fall brings change, and change is something I am ready for. If only I can shed my burdens like the trees.

The green leaf was now red. It later went from red to brown, cracks everywhere. The crackling sound, when the wind came, frightened the small children. As the leaf grew lonely and sad, it fell. It fell from the branch with it’s friends, down and down until it touched the soft grass. One of the children picked it up, examined it, and crunched it. All the remains of the horrible incident was small chunks of dry leaf.