Rustic Hues

RUSTIC HUES

The crimson ball that skims the earth,
Through the haze of cold dry air .
The lazy plumes that gently lifts ,
With fragrance from the burning stoves .

Wield faces , shrouds that walk,
Across the browns of harvested fields.
Bracing the chill , proudly gaze ,
At stacks of joy and bundled yields !

Strong Trees that Stand guard ,
To bowing shrubs and meandering berms ..
Beckoning with their swaying arms ,
Whispering tales from bygone days ,
Of love ,
It speaks to those on ground ,
To the Pea fowls and Bush tails that scamper around.

Little hands that count the sparks,
And leaping flames that leave the hearth.
The music of glass the rhythm of breath
Of mothers hands as they roll out dough.
A cup of brew a morsel of bread,
With quizzing wide eyes ,seeking answers.
Of stories lost in dreams at bed !

These tiny specs that make this world ,
Oceans of Emotions that are strewn around .
If , Heavens is what our soul do seek,
Then ...
Paradise is here , why look beyond !