There's a piece of the morning
lingering on the wood outside.
Monsoon had wet it like my
mother's sindoor that stays long,
two days after she actually wore it.
The wood wears homes of ants and
nests of lonely birds that may not
return tomorrow to coo at the dawn.
Grief is often like that piece of wood,
and some of it makes it to being in
the pencils of children and some of it
hang as a nameplate outside houses.
Mine is just a memory I recall when
I have to say "touchwood" and then
my hand goes to touch my heart.
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