The rains have stopped though the humidity continues to persist. Sunrise no longer spreads like neon light into the dawn. Dry winds carry a dusty haze across the horizon. The cacophony of the parrots declares unrest perched high upon the ledge of the twenty-fifth floor. Pigeons silently tread into the silver bill’s bird feeder, pecking grains as if there was no tomorrow. The lush green of the spring-summer rains is slowly turning into a dreary yellow as the jasmine sheds its leaves. The pink of the bougainvillea remains a sturdy stubborn diversion to the tiring autumn gale. Mother sits in the balcony watching the sunset. The steaming hot cup of tea awaits trembling hands as old eyes look on to life in a nutshell.

autumn winds –
mother’s wrinkled hands
over the warm teacup