By Annie Zaidi
The sun poured,
yellow leaves whistled down.
Heaps of seasonal letting-go
stood in my way and gardeners bent
over a late spring,
stuffing it into sacks
of green cloth.
The street struggled with smoking piles
of dry neem.
White and pink flowers stretched their lips
and smiled so much—it was grim.
Sun pouring down,
smoking winds spat in my eye,
yellow leaves skinned the air—why this?
Why in spring?
I slowed down under a neem
and caught a leaf.
What did it mean?
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