Musing 25 Poem by shuvo chakraborty

When you cross the fiftieth autumn,
Dry winter winds knocks the door,
A tree fashioned with tempting greenery
In loaded flowers charming or fruits inducing
Is left bald and terrible with doubtful roots.
Pinching cold wind turns all the leaves pitiful grey
Robbing all the flowers and fruits with terrible swift,
Haze looking on lingering fogs and deeply misunderstood
Standing like a timber ancient with host of birds pecking woods,
Waiting aloof and forlorn till the tempest grounding you perpetual.