Prehistoric ferns of yesteryear
Sharp at first touch, yield, then melt.
Decaying earth transforms
To fresh-scented beginnings:
Frost blooms on windows.


Mid-September Morning

A chill along the fingertips
Between the casings seek a cool air
Permeating cracks and forgotten windows
Thrown open in the blaze of summer
The Indian time has snapped
Frost threatens
Arising, a craving for crimson and ochre
Colors of warmth