Changing Landscape

Living on shifting sands, 
do not go for the rains. 
One day you will become 
a robber crab. 

A cross-dresser you were. 
My candle burns to see 
your face in dim light. Moon 
said, it was not yet dark. 

Playing with rustling leaves 
of autumn. I went on collecting 
the gifts of winter like my 
variant moods, yellow, brown and red! 

Go and meet my deadpan 
silver. It would never be my 
sizzling poem. I will pour the 
green river in your blue eyes.