migrants

Autumnal storms
Have blown
Her words,
Colourful
thought-tinted
Leaves,
The mind's
Calligraphy,
To some foreign places.

The poetess
Packed her bag
And followed them.

In winter's house
The poet's room
Is empty now.
A tiny draft
Through a
Half-closed door
Marks the place
Of what
Lived there,
Keeps the room
Just warm enough
Till the next summer.