Midlife

Autumn has arrived. With a look
as bewildered as a caged bear, a vision filled
with angry maples, he looks around himself.
He’s accustomed to coldness of the concrete floor
and the dry wind that brings in memories.
Of late he’s been more of a poet thriving upon
the flame colour of forest. Animals and fire
have a strange magnetism. Why must you
fear the blaze when you feel
dreams are all scalded
peppered and decaying in the mist?

Autumn has arrived a bit earlier. Some leaves
are yet to be parched. He rubs his stubble and plays
cross-word puzzles. There are more white boxes
than dark ones, and the clues poke at him like a neighbour
tapping on shoulders. The bear twinkles
and passes time with the sun that is no more a fire
in the noon.