K Srilata

 

 

A Grey Umbrella of Early November Rains

 

It is early November.

The rains are desolate,

like the grey of school uniforms

she will now never wear.

 

A general wetness has settled

persuasively

over everything.

 

Soon, I know,

her day must begin.

But I sit there

holding

over her sleeping body

a grey umbrella

of early November rains.