Fairies Wintering

We call all those leaves falling, southbound,
‘The Wintering Fairies’.
My daughter charcoal marks the Northern gusts. 
The blue is bone clean.
The spine of the sky bares a protest long nursed
beneath the skin.

Here mercury doesn’t plunge beneath
any thread bare sweater
my Alzheimer’s-uncle might have received
from some charity.
Today our searching fails near 
the toes of the river.
“Where is my crazy grand?” Asks my daughter.
I stare at the water.
Fairies wintering, things mutate into the things 
we narrowly comprehend.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor