The scent of green apples
screams like wind in a child's ears,
who runs through the storm,
Awe-struck, unafraid.
Whispers of the river
echo in the night,
resplendent with a million stars and more;
Far-away in the pine-struck forest,
crickets continue with their eternal racket;
Dew continues to fall
and the grass trembles
with cold and pleasure,
Indistinguishable,
its distinctive green
brightened by the occasional light;
A soft sob erupts from somewhere deep,
and threatens to break the peace
of the night;
But it is only another nightmare:
The night moves on
to its next demise.
© Geetakshi Arora
July 13, 2014
