Sitting in the sun,

I am a daytime firefly, hovering over the blue sky, watching my shadow in the fountain below.

I seep, the glare bouncing off the naked whiteness of the sheet with blue ink.

I recall a lunch I once ate, reclining on a bench under a maple tree and the gaze of one whom I had just kissed.

I think now: that perhaps it was just a figment of imagination, a dream tinged with sudden forceful reality.

I note Time has passed and in it's passing had abraded the pain, into a smooth rounded reality, sans any jagged edges.

I don't question anymore the scheme of things, fate, right or wrong, as these things play themselves out like a toy slowly unwinding.

I hope I would find meaning in how I live, with an increasing awareness of the vastness and mists within, in which I move dancing slowly.

I span thus: the days from one winter to another cold winter.

We lay on our backs, side to side, On the cool cement terrace. I am scanning the moon For old childhood lullabies:

“Mama Moon don’t forget to come up tonight On the horizon. As you slowly climb that hill On your starry cart bring my baby a song, A sweet sweet jasmine scented song.”

Your arm touches mine and your fingers Touch the back of my palm, touching A strong undercurrent of joy that flows in my still sea of marked sorrow.

Gusting wind brings with it music Now of a piano, now of a cello And then a woman’s voice on the radio waves, jazz surfing in from New Orleans.

“Your body too is one such jazz improvisation, Played on a gypsy’s guitar”, I say this to you And you laugh. A mouthful of ivory picks Strum the night air and make the moon wobble

Tell me how did we come to this place? This stillness that is broken now only When you laugh at me or touch me Just, just like that, just as you now did!

2003:06:01 00:05 atl A poem for no one.

Coming from Nobel’s land, Pulling a whole thin strand of life behind you, You came up, transfigured in an Indian dress, As if you were a goldfish surfacing!

It was left to me to come up, Trashing and breathless for air, For that pause that was required of me to etch this memory’s tattoo, was so long!

Was it my surprise or an old ache Hidden deep inside of me that was gasping? I don’t know. I don’t know how one begins To pour such beauty into a hollow frame of words.

Or cloth! You did. So this is for you to tell, And for me to listen and scan.

• for Ann 2003:05:18 Atl