The Stories She Tells

The azure sky changed
into a garment of orangish-red
as the sun setting in the horizon
mutely signaled the end of the day.

The dogwood blossoms fell to the ground,
spreading a white carpet around the trunk.
They planned to exit in silence,
to come back again the next year.

To adorn the garden,
the rose buds bloomed overnight,
not declaring
their transition to the flowering state.
And yet, all saw the change.

With roving eyes,
the squirrel under the half-naked maple tree
chewed on and on without a sound,
performing one of his mundane chores
without telling the world.

Like a seedling that sprouts fast with the rains
the tiny one germinated, standing tall,
right up to his mother’s chest.
He is that new-born baby I saw
just the other day.
I did not hear him grow;
I simply saw him change.

Outgrowing the frills, ribbons, and dolls,
unannounced,
she cast her garb
of the little bouncy girl
and withdrew into a shell
encompassed by shyness and quietness.

Staring at the blank walls
in the stillness of the night,
her head rested on the wet pillow.
Hiding from others,
she quietly mourned her solitude.

Seeing their boy walk up the stage
and collect his trophy amidst a thundering applause,
their faces beamed.
Speechless, their tears rolled down
and unfolded a story of abundant joy.

The quiet, ruthless distance filled the gap
as a friendship dwindled down the lane
without a reason or a question asked.

The bits and fragments they are,
forming the cadence of life.
The hues and shades,
solemn and joyful,
vibrant and dull,
fill the pages with stories
that silence writes,
with her infinite unspoken words.