Shoot it if it rhymes

THE AMBER CELLAR

I had a friend

who used to tear

the edges off evenings

and weave mats

out of them.

He was a good man.

He locked up

his evening-mats

safely in the cellar

of his own house.

We used to marvel at

the  strips of evening-edges

turning into

the warp and weft of the mats.

Soon, evenings laced with a palette of scarlet, amber,

saffire, saffron,

and emrald green, became mats;

piled high

one on top of another

resting upon

the floor of his cellar.

But,

the insides of the cellar

which sheltered the mats

were filled with darkness.

Those who sauntered by,

Seeking the tones of

a lilting flute,

birdsong,

twilight mantras,

and adhans

were greeted

by a deafening silence.

My friend departed

a few days ago,

leaving behind

his evening-strip mats.

Just the other day,

the wind swept by,

bringing back

some evenings from the past.

None of them had

edges.