Winter

The blanket is heavy.
I unfold it around you
pull at edges, carefully cover a stray leg.
A good night kiss. Lights off.
Snuggle.

Suspended moments

It was almost twelve, daddy, and we hurried through gallery 11,
wavering but a moment at the raja, vajir, haathi, oonth, ghoda and pyaade,*
all suspended in ivory: a battle, set up, but forever awaiting the conch.
We ran down the corridor --Sunday afternoons slipped by
when you'd taught us to build forts on pieces from your childhood
--and arrived, breathless, to the musical clock in the lobby.
But that little watchman, time, had already chimed the hour.

*Piece names in Hindi for the king, queen, rook, bishop, knight, and pawns.
Something like this: http://www.flickr.com/photos/21000745@N02/5051374373/lightbox/

Mother's Day

After a quiet meal, I nudged my mother,
and on my plate, traced out two stick figures
holding hands.

Still life

Some things do not take kindly to photographs.
They are entirely too un-still, to be stilled
on film, or in code of ones and zeros.
Take the flight of swallows:
in one click, capricious turns and banks
are reduced to a flash
of feathers, wings and forked tail in blue sky.
You're like that, I think. One might, perhaps,
capture the laughter about the crinkles of your eyes,
but it is far easier to catch the warmth
of sun glint on rivers
than that something in those precious eyes
that hints at knowing secrets to life itself.

Things I'm afraid to tell you.

(Just fluff, please)

I do not have, today,

sparkling stories or warm memories,
or glossed-up descriptions of grief.
And I thought, today, I'd be brave.

Write of that that isn't beautiful,

isn't perfect.

Fingers quiver. Type. 

Delete. In the silence,

that fan beats out its relentless rhythm:

it's hot, it's hot, it's hot...

One day, love, I will not be afraid
of judgement and rejection.
I will be brave enough 

to write of the things I'm afraid to tell you.