This poem is called age

The squirrel hiding within my chest is half awake.

I imagine, peeping snowflakes outside the window.

The broken tune of the music that I was humming and

the fluttering wings of the noisy babbler outside the patio,

they all carry a new rhythm, today. 

Those old questions are fading away from the touchscreen keypad.

There is a winter walking within me.

A cold winter that strangely bears its own fiery warmth,

making me bow down in reverence.