A Beautiful Mess

It’s you,

It’s always you,

I come to after a day’s hard work -

I learn patience, I learn silence -

I learn the Joy,

Of being the non-verbal.

You don’t fit in the description of nature,

As preached in our histories;

You are indeed so much more,

Highly inexplicable -

You are a folklore.

The songs I write looking at you;

Shall make a funeral happy,

The spring jealous.

Your name; even bestowed upon a babe

Shall make their life blessed.

Spring’s name so mechanical,

Summer sounds like slumber;

Lazy bums.

You instead look divine,

Taste of happiness realized deep enough;

That now, I don’t smile.

You are one of a kind;

All seasons in one,

They have you right in front of them

Yet they argue, plot and fight.

Writing about you is vain.

No justice shall be done,

So I and we all express a wish;

To write a preface -

To the unwritten novel -

Called you, ‘Autumn’;

For words shall fall short and feelings incomplete.

My beautiful handsome Autumn,

Our brains remain disabled,

In trying to understand you thoroughly;

Forgive us but we try our best -

When we don’t know how to describe something so immaculate -

Like you, O dear wonder,

We call it a - ‘Beautiful Mess.’