The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Season of Mists By Archita Mittra QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: This poem was previously published in the Statesman Voices. I. The sun hangs low Like a ripe pomegranate. We play in the dust Among the maple Till the moon swallows us up And we disappear Into nothing. II. Dreams are such Fleeting moments Dangling In that misty realm Of dusk, or dawn An in-between world Of lost things Like an autumn Orange and fiery Seeping in, As worlds die. My shy sprite With a tiara of russet leaves Sparkling In that golden dusk Where spirits meet Shimmering Like a remnant Of a long forgotten dream. Our blackbirds have left Their nests In the skeletal trees. They sing no more. (At least we do not hear them sing) So we gather The nuts and berries Into a cornucopia Of love and longing For spring (And for the squirrels We do not meet) As the wind moans In loneliness. But we smell that sweet Scent of decay When we hide behind That pumpkin patch Or steal apples, Pretending They are rubies As nectar drips From our laughing Mouths. But the touch of autumn Is colder than winter Because it promises so much It foretells so much Because the nights are so long It feels so endless And I’m running out of tales To keep telling myself I’m not Alone, My ghosts are with me. I like to think We will be here Till the end of time Together. Forever. III. We play no more Among the maple Because the blackbirds told me When they came back That there never was a we Only an IV. Half in the dark, Lost in the mist, Longing for light. #Unreal #Poetry #Seasons #Nature #Longing #Imagery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. CommentsComments are closed.
|