#5

Have we forgotten to wait for the rains?

Writing you into my poems surreptitiously

I find your habits tucked into the front 

pocket of your favourite shirt. Is this how 

time expands and we fill into it everything 

we want to hide — the sun scorching on the 

bird bath, light angling on the papad left out 

to dry, your face in front of my eyes, the 

poem being written, a small cloud passes 

by and we don’t see it glide, my words not 

feeling enough. A jaunty afternoon dream 

visits and perches on your shoulder while 

you take a nap. I want to save it for you so 

you can see it. I try not to lie down next to 

you, even though I yearn to touch you, cut 

the raw mango for you and dry it under 

the same scorching sun, the bird bath dry, 

parched, the sun still fiery, angling and 

the small cloud passing by unnoticed. 

Have we forgotten to wait for the rains?