We all want to tell our stories. Warm, tender, twinkling moments we all want to share.
When I opened the door this morning, thick mist blanketed the open field that greets me lush green every morning. This morning the open lay had some other share to do. It wanted to conceal, it wanted toplay hide and seek, it wanted to play the lamb. The mist was joyfully all over playing prank.
This is how autumn mist tenderly put her feet on my arid land.
White, moist sky and pasture land just in preferable sync.It is time to get frenzy in festive color. It is the time drum beatings and sticks would reverberate from the thick forests of human habitat. It is the time when most are packing for their bracketed homegoings.
My home in the hills must be raining. It must be cold. It waits for my autumn appearance and each time… I have atrocious narrative as an excuse knocking at the door, convincing those yearning, those waiting arms, “not this time, next year for sure.”
I wait for the next autumn, the “season of mist and mellow fruitfulness” every year. And each year the mist of a make up conceals the shadow underneath my eyes.
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