In the garden.
While the wintry
beds are
agog to bid
farewell , when
the season is
taking the
last breath, the
frosty leaves
creepy on the wet
land,
some crumble, some roll on
in clusters like coils
to the corner of
the wall,
beyond which there is no
move for that is the line
of boundary , gentle rays
of Sun like the
supple
limbs of New born ,
you are the loner ,
no, not yet birds
to chirp ,
you look up to the skies,
slowly clearing as if
to
answer the muddied ,
infecting , inflecting cosmic
visions, still the wet
smell of the soil is
invigorating,
wet is a
must,
that wet craves
in man’s heart,
you are the
loner.
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