This the morning has the texture of plastic
In a world of hues, of longevity, of a breath
A corrugation, a tilt to a side, a new sound
Of a world upside down, a feel of thinginess.
Shapes are chairs in their silence of sitting,
A sound of looking, a skin feel of winter air
A palm occupying wind with water in throat
A form in formlessness, a door shutting out
Winter, a butterfly failing to land on flower.
Morning is rain in its falling softly into light.
It is rain mired in the half light of open sky,
Plants in earth pots dreaming spring leaves
On branches scraping the blue off a new sky.
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.
At seven,we thought we had seen the moon
From the roof, in the waving coconut leaves.
Actually the chair we sat on was a blue moon
Inciting these moon thoughts in early nights.
In point of fact the moon was just a light bulb
Lying on the distant roof, beyond the station.
Every coconut has to have a moon in its fate.
You see the moon happens as an appendage
To our coconut trees, mostly, in early nights.
On a rain less night the moon rises over them
As a beauty-flower in their hair in a dark sky.
At times moons are mere light bulbs hovering
On rooftops,peacefully existing with coconuts.
When they are moons, not dim-wit light bulbs
They may be broken with some moon missing.
But they always stand by the listless coconuts
Encouraging them with a characteristic cool.
River steps are wet with village women’s baths.
A golden sunlight floods their mornings in boats
Leaving early for mountains on wrinkled rivers.
Giant banyans greet them from the other bank
Spreading their shadows of hair on the blue sky.
Mornings are for sun, palms cupped with water
Looking the sun in the eye, lips softly trembling
With prayers, as white wet clothes cling to body.
On the river bed, the buffaloes bath in shallows,
Unperturbed by the sun flashing in vacant eyes,
Like little rocks in the bed laid smooth and bare
By a dried up river, after last year’s flash floods.