The fallen leaves, this autumn, have been piled,
So that she can keep right on top of them;
And, if the heaps mean every leaf is filed,
Then such is life, the tidiness may stem.
Wild thoughts of blooming breezes and the storm,
That lies inside her chest – it stops her breath;
To recollect how she was swept to form,
The lesser half, before that summer death.
Left her in modest skirts, her broom sweeps clean,
But every brush stroke leaves the paving stark;
As does the thought of all that might have been,
Had he not gone that day – he left his mark.
Upon her shoulder blade, now her broom steers,
The fallen leaves, this autumn and her tears.
By Nilesh Kumar
Section-A
MBA, 2020-2022
