Here we sit before the body in this room’s corner ,crumbling into its first dust with leaves of dust alive in its mouth.
This is our memento mori ,our dress rehearsal for our own return to dust . Our first object lesson on how to be an object before we return to dust.
We are waiting for this body’s dusty daughter to reach this room corner. Before we get down to its dusty business .
The cow dust is returning home .This is our memento mori, our lesson on how to turn dust at twilight.
Garden is a wood tree standing erect as if it was alive and pretending life,hosting evening birds chatting away with slum kids playing street cricket.
Garden is a fragrance remembered,soft grass crawling with slow snail, birds singing of changing the world while I was at the computer trying to change it before the cuckoo did.
Fence is a running shadow of bush,hiding controverting garden lizard that had agreed with your nothing as it vigorously waved vertical head to every polemic from your poetry.
The spider is your world’s wide web that collected season’s rain pearls sparkling for proud sun moments but gone when you returned from an olfactory inspection of jasmines.
Garden is mama reading in a swing from life’s pages that would be ice, a fire’s ashes and a river’s waters, a death’s fragrance remembered.
We are old and puffed up with silences. We do not want to hang for others money .Let us be .We are used to long silences and we hang in on our higher language and sardonic laughter, not quite caught.
So, do we see a jerk in the driver of awe ,a body with respect in eyes for the old? No, just money-hunger of a few more rupees, from a body that carries other bodies, a face not quite distinct, possible of puff with oldness , when once out of splutter.Knees shall laugh in due course of wobble.
We are old ,not quite liking to be called aunt by an aunt in street with a cuckoo in throat calling out , you gone for a walk recently? Yes, of course, our knees do not wobble yet. But we shall have our cuckoos soon.