Singalila

The rhododendron trail has a roof

Clad in hues

Of departing autumn:

Orange of the maple leaf,

Ever so elegant in its fall;

Green of the magnolia,

Eager to blush at the faintest whispers

Of spring;

The barren have long shed their green

Revealing my winter blues –

An endless playground for wings.

Death is the end, only

If you think it so;

Just ask the tiny oak nut that rebels, 

Plummets, 

And breaches the silence

Of an infinite jungle on tiptoes.

~ Sumeet

Footsteps

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Into the dark of woods
The morning sun peeks,
Sly as a myth.
Solemn trees are roused
By recklessness
Of footsteps on leaves.
The forest floor crumbles
Beneath scraggly feet
Of a girl purposely lost.

She treads the quiet trail
For answers don’t sit in crowds,
Nor does the boy
Who sings birdsongs of spring,
That only she can hear-
She and paradise flycatchers.

Feet scarlet as the ground beneath,
Toenails blue
As the cold timber fell,
She is the woods:
Pristine, rustling with life,
Lit with a blazing yellow.

O wanderer of the woods,
Sit by the lake blue and clear-
It shall tell you secrets; show you
The answers you seek
Lie within;
That if you sit still,
Very still,
They’ll find you.
Just like I.