The morning begins with rain bird
Cuckoo trying to sing for more rain
Wet rain on morning roads bringing
A few fallen leaves, mirrors of puddles
A dead night’s moths lying sprawled
On the window sills remembering
Brief lives of fewer regrets, forgotten
Death events, a sun looking away.
Birds are up and about, competing
In their throaty songs with crickets
The last vestiges of a just closed night.
They go into a huddle, their music
Touching the hem of the sky loftily
In silks treasured in blushing clouds.
Now there is silence in white clouds
The sun gently peeping out making
Clouds blush more, for alleged failure.
There is no rain and a sun goes crimson
For much promise , little performance .
Thunder went quickly dead, lightning
All a swagger, nothing much to show
Only a few chalk lines behind the hills.
Muted conversations are heard in the street
In the gray shadows of the houses of dusk.
Women squat on the steps of their houses
To discuss kids, husbands and neighbors.
Their memories go back to other evenings
Of kids, drunk husbands and bad neighbors,
Of the pretty floral designs before houses
Other women made in rice powder and color.
The incense smoke from four-armed gods
Enters the streets, reaches up to the tall trees
And electric wires, goes up in silken swirls.
As darkness sets tiny white flowers break out
From loving mother creepers on the houses
Like the stars we see burst on our roof at night.
A lost house talks quietly to the lake
In a tender morning light of its birds
Birds that are in no hurry for shadows
Of a camera not opening quite to trees
But its shadows tail buildings fallen
Headlong into a morning lake of gold
The lake laps up against a parapet wall
Of nobody leaning against it for view.
Absences are ghosts with no prior bodies
Absences that could have turned men
If the house had stood erect to the lake
The lake for company on moonlit nights
With a moon falling across the parapet
To the ripples of a soft wind in the lake
The lake’s trees make a luminous frame
To the shadows of birds, the buildings
Fallen into its shimmer, a moonlight
Of the previous night still cherished
By the lost house as a tender memory
Of leaves fallen to the moon of the lake,
Not its absences near the parapet wall.