I find you like this,

Exposed to us and the sky,

Silent but excitedly weary.

You widen your cold smile

Each time our eyes meet,

At the horizon not very far.

Swaying your little ego,

The breeze makes your last

Leaves flutter again,

rhythmically, dutifully.

“Don’t worry,” you wink,

“now the winter is dead.”

Author: Archita

Musings about life and photography.

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