season of mists
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
I
Half in the dark,
Lost in the mist,
Longing for light.
*
Previously published in the Statesman, Voices and in Quail Bell Magazine
Archita Mittra: writer, editor & artist 