Haiku
There were whispers of
autumn in your fingertips
on the day we met:
the crisp breeze of your
words, the brown hue of your smile,
the frost-glazed friendship.
You wound grounded leaves
around your lifeline and turned
them into snow drifts -
and they fell like tears
into my dreams, out my eyes,
to decorate my sleep.
There was an offer
of re-birth in your palm as
you stretched it out for
clouds to decorate.
And the skies scrolled over it,
dyeing it orange.
You presented me with
gifts of a dying season
and bound it tightly
between the clutch of
your henna palm and mine - white
like the innocence
in your lightened smile.
You were always my haiku
in all its meanings:
complex to structure,
ambiguous in meaning,
beauty in snapshots.
autumn in your fingertips
on the day we met:
the crisp breeze of your
words, the brown hue of your smile,
the frost-glazed friendship.
You wound grounded leaves
around your lifeline and turned
them into snow drifts -
and they fell like tears
into my dreams, out my eyes,
to decorate my sleep.
There was an offer
of re-birth in your palm as
you stretched it out for
clouds to decorate.
And the skies scrolled over it,
dyeing it orange.
You presented me with
gifts of a dying season
and bound it tightly
between the clutch of
your henna palm and mine - white
like the innocence
in your lightened smile.
You were always my haiku
in all its meanings:
complex to structure,
ambiguous in meaning,
beauty in snapshots.