For Charu, with Bhaswati

If glass jars could hold words, mine
Would meet the sheer walls of 
Reflection and shine, gold in the day
Silver all night. Your plants would
Know how to make my words 
Grow from single notes into lines
Of music like poets singing the morning
So practiced that kettles whistle
And birds rise; a sunrise of eyes
Meeting each letter in recognition,
And our mothers materialise out of
Memory and desire. (See how old
Poets conspire to to speak in our
Tongues!) if glass jars could hold 
My words I would sit happily among
The paraphernalia of your days
Quickening to life or melting to stone
Never alone.