Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Our story

Beyond the maple mountains,
beyond the salmon rivers,
we found each other.
But how did Tagore know?
That was our question.

That is how the hills turned purple,
maybe only for the night,
maybe only for the moon,
then behind the Earth, in hiding
like a dark hole in summer.

There our rabbits ran,
and the grass was green,
on treetops made of maple syrup.

And honeybees sang to the river,
flowing into clouds,
above steel bridges.
Their hooves were cast iron,
and dug into the riverbed.
Around them, the fish swam,
with emerald ribbons.

You only smile.
But then, don't you believe those squirrels,
with tails like scarves?
And don't you believe our night on the meadow,
looking at the twinkling of eyes
in the night sky?

Tuesday, November 6, 2012


On a sunkissed rooftop near the seas
shrouded in sensuous smells of the breeze
amidst coconut palms and drumstick trees
and holy chants and gardens of peace
she paces longing for times to come.

Under inky diamond-studded skies
upon a hill where no eye pries
she writes furiously, a poet in disguise,
of structures and laws of manifold whys
and smiles at memories of times gone by.