In a faraway place
where the trees were yellow
I heard the story of a lonesome leaf
from a crooked brook
She talked of its worries
its longing
its fading colors
its days of distress
While I looked blankly at the brook
she never blinked
The story ended
Night fell in place
I took a step towards the lonely yellow leaf
The leaf turned red.
Shringi
April 18, 2011
There is an essence of its own, when you know 'why'.
ReplyDeleteLoved this for that.
It has an essence. Of that which the reader fills in it. With a reader like you, I could well write a blank poem on a blank sheet and leave you find your muse.
ReplyDeleteThank you.