Is it only autumn when the leaves brown?
Being broken bit by bit
Withering away ever so gently
By the time it’s winter.
A silent farewell midst a riot of
Oranges, yellows and browns.
Picture book pretty even as they die.
So delicate, so fragile
Crumbling at the slightest touch.
Do they never get bruised
In the lushness of spring?

The Umbrella Girl



Dee had seen the leaves falling outside her large, glass window. The leaves were a warm shade of autumn as they fell into piles in her backyard. As a quiet girl of 14, Dee did not have too many friends. What she did have was a lovely, silken umbrella of many, many colours. And it was magical. Each time Dee opened the umbrella, the world changed around her. It’s true. Through its shade, everything around seemed just a shade brighter, the smiles a bit wider, and flowers more fragrant. So whenever Dee went out, she always carried it with her and happiness rushed in, quickening all her senses, as her long legs took big strides and she disappeared around some corner.

(This is something I had sketched, some time back. I was playing around with patterns. My sketches tends to automatically veer towards childhood for some odd reason.)