Two years ago today, I held death on the back of my tongue.
Two years later, I hold you in the safe haven of my arms.

The frog half fearful jumps across the path,
And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,
Till past, and then the cricket sings more strong,
And grasshoppers in merry moods still wear
The short night weary with their fretting song.
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,
Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,
And drops again when no more noise it hears.
Thus nature’s human link and endless thrall,
Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.

I.
I’m standing in front of a stove starved  
for heat, shivering before a *** of boiling water,
my stiff fingers attempt to fold
themselves into my chest.
it's unusually cold in California this week,
I know you would be pleased.
I am focused on a gifted bouquet of orange roses
decorating my dining table;
only you would understand why
they make me so blue.

II.
I thought about you this Thanksgiving,
how your hands drew a line through the air
showcasing points of chaos, as you recounted
the turkey fire, and your grandfather's
drunken speech, 8 years ago this week.
I couldn't remember the punchline,
but we laughed so **** hard.

I figured that's why you were writing,
you too recalled a time I made you laugh,
but edited the sad parts out.

III.
You ask how I am.
I want to tell you I feel not like myself,
but I think it unfair to make you a reference point
of whom I think I should be.
So I'll say, I feel less
like the girl you would remember,
and more like a stranger
living in her body.

IV.
I had a dream three days in a row
where we were sitting on the shallow end
of an empty pool avoiding remnants
of algae water, settled in small ponds.
I was wearing a burgundy, babydoll dress
that I used to wear when I was in eight.
I whispered something in slow motion,
you laughed, teeth grinning towards the sky,
like a child;
how bittersweet it was to remember the way
the lines find their place around your almond eyes.

I guess you will always be a place where
my subconscious goes to ache.

1.
The old lady sits on the garden bench, a fixture,
from the days so far, colonial times to be precise,
thickly painted green, coat after coat,that covers up age,
after the incessant lashing of copious monsoon rains,this evening
the bench has a secret gleam, as if  it's age has been washed away for ever.
2.
Her hair, resplendent silver;the children playing on the sand bed
in the open space in front of  her bench, stand wondering:
far removed from realities familiar,she seemed,"Is she real?"
The old lady plays with a child that ran to her and embraced,
curious to touch her hair, happily it springs on to her lap,
her starched Sari gets crumpled,to it'smother
the old lady softly says"Don't bother children need space,
freedom and  care, love his smile, don't want to see it wither"
3.
She looks at the flowerbed and smiles to herself,
as if she remembered her own dreams a day too far.
The old garden bench, senses a magic,with a start it wakes up
from it's slumber and begins to prattle,"Yes, it's really her,
remember the passion filled kisses she exchanged  with her sweetheart,
when darkness came stealthily,like a crafty lover out to rob hearts,
right here on my lap, at a time love was a scent wafting low in the air
Where has he gone? I now wonder,a lot of monsoon clouds
burst up on me limitless quantities of water,after that"
4.
A wind so strong, like the hands of time ruffled
the leaves of the giant banyan tree,that stood sentinel,
leaves  started a cheerful dance, reminiscent of the play of life*
Perhaps the night the death waiting on the wings is little disappointed.