It is already late, you said, Pasa . . .
Prateebha Tuladhar
It is already late, you said, Pasa.
But it rained so hard last night,
I could almost see the wind–
a sheet flailing down in October to remind us of the monsoon.
It’s too late for the monsoon, you said, Pasa.
But the rain drove sink holes deep, behind the house.
And when the sun finally came out,
it burnt our skin, razing the months all the way back to May.
It’s too hot for winter, you said, Pasa.
And you said aloud: When will winter feel like itself again?
We sat by the banks of Hijya, watching the cattails wilt.