Golden remains of withering trees

heaping on your balcony.

Faint whiff of pollen

interspersed with misty wisps

of coldness

gently settling on your pyjamas.

Regulator of the fan

receding from five to four,

to three, to two,

until switched off for good.

Cold feet,

cold fingertips,

cold floor.

Unaware of the tastefulness

of Norah Jones coupled with

sunlight clothing your feet.

A pair of socks; scarves;

thin wrap arounds.

A steady preparation.

Slowly; mindlessly.

And then one early morning

you find winters sitting

on your wicker chair

like a lazy furry cat.


Love comes like this.

It passes through your walls and curtains.

It couldn’t care less about knocking on doors.

It’s not a hurricane.

It’s exactly what happens after fall.