these days

these days

i sit on a garden step,
and watch a freshly bathed saanjh
blissfully dust sand all over herself.
a swallow tatse a ripe jamaican cherry
and flit over the garden hedge.
we bring home a basketfull of fallen butterfly-wing leaves
to weave along our dried mogra festoon.

in the kitchen,
i prayerfully stir milk to make kulfi (traditional indian frozen dessert)
and find domestic poetry
in the drying of melon seeds and curry leaves.

between doing and sleep,
i meet these kindred words
and preserve them in my mind.
relearn a forgotten lesson of love
and slowly begin to gather
my thoughts and our things;
for far from here,
a new house, a new city and a new chapter await.

. . .

friday, noontide
the eleventh
māgha