This springtime reminds
of autumn’s wind
and decadent roads
will smell the tar once again
as roads need to be repaired
in this season only
with the brush of the rains
lacing them with wetness, muddy. I stand or walk
precariously as the roads
are prepared once again for torrid rains, the monsoon’s blues, and the fang-bearing winds.
In this hill town I breathe freely. Rustic.
What are your thoughts on this poem? Leave a comment below. Browse more original contemporary poetry about the human condition, or submit a poem of your own.