UMANATH BHATTACHARYA
Did I say “I lament
over the leaves dead?”
It’s a mistake I must concede.
The leaves can never be bereft of life.
Had it been so
there would not have been so much
merry-making at the carnival of their fall;
When they drop jostling
clad in yellow and gold
and descend to their grave
presenting a dumb tableau.
Well, to the budding twigs of trees
or to the muddy womb of the earth
equally rapturous are their birth
and departure, year to year.
Maybe it’s all due to their awareness
that like the mythical phoenix
from the heaps of gold crumbling in clay
they will resurrect anon–
the unborn generations of leaves
pulsating and fluttering in the breeze
defying the pernicious breath of death.