The window has been a secret haunt for life this dark winter.
Like it takes me into space of webs and nests, dry pipes and palm fronds,
of squirrels that rake in clothes and cotton;
silently nurturing death in making home. Like you and I did every winter.
Our lights burn on, long into the nights when peacocks mourn
the death of a home; you looking into your palm-lines and I creating stories out of
it.
My stories were all built on your silences. Look! how the cobwebs hide the
sketches we had torn
Like dreams falling with the snow in splinter. They bury the warm afternoons
with subtle finger touches. The squirrels remained silent as lifeless.
Till it grew warmer and the silence was deafening and you chucked out the little
life that we thought never existed.
Your palms are white and the window is open. We are still. A squirrel groans like
your pulses. Time to time. Hour to hour.