Ma

I see you busy in your work.

Your hair, more white than black, is thin

And falls loosely over your shoulders;

There is a vein that beats prominently

Above your forehead, and your hands

Now gently shake when you are tired.

Your clothes sit light on you, the lines

On your face speak of the years in the sun;

You are not now the same person you were.

The back that bore the weight of three children

Is somewhat bent with time;

You had walked out of home to work

Overcoming the loud small-town voices

And your own shyness; they are silent now.

You were made of iron, but that too rusts.

I think of all this, and time, and sorrow.

You see me and conscious of my gaze

You smile your smile of missing teeth.

You are old, like silver, beautiful:

You seem to have walked out of a painting

By Raphael or some Renaissance master;

I cannot breathe, I am overcome:

There are days like this when we live

As if death or time did not matter,

When it is bliss just to be alive;

You tell me it may rain, to take the umbrella.

Among the most mundane things to say;

And all I think is how grateful I am

For life and you and everything,

And how old age should be exactly like this:

To have lived a life doing the things you love

Being the mistress of the small things,

Watching what you gave your heart to take shape.

Diptesh Ghosh

Three Months

August

A rain drop still lingers

On the tip of a green leaf

Long after the dark clouds

Have dispersed from the sky;

Like the drop that shimmers

In the corner of your eyes,

Silent, out of season, and beautiful;

March

The first leaf breaks free, quite unnoticed,

Like the first boy back in school

After a particularly long vacation;

Soon the quiet hills will resound

With the cries of those yet to come

The forest that is yet to wake;

December

Steaming tea in hand I watch

The wind blow through the green valley

Singing a tune that must resonate

With the young saplings of oak and Birch:

They sway and flutter fiercely.

They shake and tumble with the wind.

If they were not rooted,

They too would fly.

Diptesh Ghosh