Our Seasons

By Paramjit Bakhshi

Once again, the winter

Has crept in unannounced

The morning mist

With thick padded soles

Has snuck into the porch

Without as much as

A polite hello

And obliterated my view.

So how should I see

That spring is not far behind.

Of all the seasons

This is the most cruel

The coleus already lies

Annihilated

The green grass will soon

Turn brown

The land will slowly be parched dry

The river will shiver and shrink

All around will be a heartless

Barren wintry world.

It was a noisy summer

When I met you

There was a storm in my soul

That was reflected in

The monsoon downpour

The circumstance rained all around

I was bereft of a wind cheater

No umbrella or heater

And suddenly you were there

I saw your spirit afire

And was drawn to your door.

We had a decent autumn

It was neither cold nor warm

Somewhere in between

A promise and a spell

If not heaven

It wasn't hell

Though many leaves withered

And fell

The scene still being worthy

Of a decent show and tell

Some still green, some brown

A sliver of gold

In the sunset.

A promise of still winning

Every risky bet.

The mist hides the future

Which will nevertheless be here

When it withdraws its

Huffing and puffing

Fat bulging silhouette.

Tumbling down the steps

It too will be buried

Like every invading Sultan

Leaving some of us burnt

Some just tanned.

Some looking for a wider space

Some happy to stay crammed.

The old buried

The young silently damned.

But survive we will

Perhaps even thrive

Through Steinbeck "s " winter

Of our discontent."

There can be no spring without us

No winter too

Without our consent.

By Paramjit Bakhshi