Yonder

The hills will be austere
in their auburn barks,
the leafless trees will exist ascetics;
their yogic postures
like the beckoning red signs
on eyes, when they forget
to put up the shutters.

The sun will be fierce
in the emptiness of the blue yonder

Waters will recede
in the veins of the land,
the breeze, like our invisible breaths,
will be a tad drunk.

We'll settle where the wild flowers will be;
a diaphanous veil of love
over the wrinkled face of Earth.

The house will be a lone lump of clay;
Adam's apple, in that neck of the woods yonder.
And through it will be heard like smoke
the susurration of two flames,
tickling nonbeings without.