Only the Wind

only the wind,
later,
much later,
combing the grass
below the stately banyan,
dragging stale crumbs
into the vortex of a startled gasp,
feet bleeding,
heart racing
ahead of its trembling hands;

only the wind,
that stumbled upon the ring,
the big yellow diamond
like a chunk of cringing sun,
face half-buried in the mud,
a jaundiced star
trapped inside a gold mirage;

they say it wasn’t yet fall,
they say it was still warm,
but the leaves turned a sickly mustard hue,
falling in sallow clumps,
a stained blanket heaped over
an unclaimed corpse;
they say it never really dried,
and yet one day the whole tree died;

only the wind,
hugging the secret to its rheumy chest,
sometimes watched the stranger watch,
from a distance,
through the silence,
feeling the footsteps in the grass,
hearing time as it passed,
they say his eyes never dried,
and yet the light in them had died;

only the wind,
unable to lift it,
unable to leave it,
whistled over the lifeless plain,
sang alone of the toxic pain,
that still seeped
from the interred stone,
eating the roots
that embraced it.

For the midweek prompt at Poets United– “Picnic”.
Inspired by W.H Auden’s haiku:

Thoughts of his own death,
like the distant roll
of thunder at a picnic.
– Marginalia (1965-68)

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