RIVULETS OF THOUGHTS - Cascading emotions

She Rode The Spring On Her Way Out

Way past midsummer; it's midday on an Indian street.

Summer precariously placed, to be toppled, ready to make way.

By the impending autumn, that looms over the month of may.

The indifferent Sun, burning away in glory, steadily raises the heat.

A freshly laid road; the asphalt baking in the scorching sun,

Spewing vapours, mirages like haze, that suck in gullible attention.

Garden on one side, extending a haven, for lovers short on penny.

Energetic sprinklers, rotating and quenching the thirst of the grass.

Sarai and mahagony trees line up on the other side of this street,

Shedding their leaves, leaving them scattered and in dismay.

Yet the generous trees, with naked boughs provide a skeletal shade.

Autumn evidently has draped its shroud on this littered road.

Dry orphaned leaves, rarely stir or move; but they rise in mock joy,

As a midday breeze, funnelled by empty spaces amidst crossroads,

Momentarily lifts and playfully swirls the leaves, only to drop them.

Here i stand, i still stand, i stand still on this road, recollecting that day,

The year, when spring made way to this horrendous autumn.

i don't blame the riding spring, change is in the nature of time.

Spring bereft of a reason to stay, after a pair of feet walked away.

When a certain pair of feet, kept walking away from my sight.

My defeated eyes, traced those steps,

Hesitant yet determined footsteps, Heavy footsteps,

That chained and dragged the life out of my caving chest.

i let it all ride on this one person.

It rode on the pace of her stride, in a moment,

When her momentary presence felt important than assurance.

And the visual, of her sun kissed tresses swaying, stayed back.

Weary from the wretched weather and arid memories that lay strewn,

i retire to the shelter of the house, built of bricks picked from dreams,

i notice the untenanted hammock that hangs in solitude from the beams.

The one i tied for her, for her to lie down,

With her legs hanging, for the tress-passing breeze to caress.

And I used to lie underneath, with her soft tresses kissing my face.

This abandoned hammock, once a pleasant cotton-white, now dirty,