The Storm Within

Amid departed leaves
teardrops and busted twigs
the afternoon was
having a solitary time
counting the leftovers of spring.
Even the burning globe was resting
behind a sheath of gray curtain,
certain demanding sparrows
were at odds
taking their mid-day lunch.
Dying of thirst
an empty branch
kept dreaming
of a drop of monsoon,
strewn
with heaps of fragile corpses
the ground prayed on
for a tempest soon.

Abruptly
gushed in an invading gale
combing through the tresses
of startled willows
unsettling the glum interior
of a besotted lover
as the flakes of litter
and nests of memories
whirled around.