Last month the letter you wrote
Which I received after some fifteen days' wait,
Had the smell of pines and eucalyptus
And roses too,
You wrote the garden which you have been nurturing for long
Had started blooming,
Summer followed by monsoon
Had brought fruition there,
It must have been great
To see those trees growing greener
I could picture you almost
Working at the garden
With those chrysanthemums
With your spatula, plodding the moist earth,
Your apron catching mud and soil,
A few strands of your hair falling over your eyes and you time and again
Trying to put them back ,
Using the palm of your hands,
Yes, I can almost see you,
There at the end of the day,
Sitting at the porch,
Looking at the vacant lot
Before your house,
Where every evening
Glowworms come gathering,
Then perhaps you go to kitchen,
Are there any dearth of works at home?
There is always something to be cooked,
And something to be washed and cleaned,
Then perhaps you serve dinner
The children are always hungry
And who else would understand them better than you?
All these works take away the evening,
The night finally comes with steely darkness,
You wrote then you get your time to read,
You read Eliot's long poems,
Auden's cryptic ones,
Sometimes , as you wrote,
You flip through magazines,
All those poems which I sent to you
Have you ever them read?
Have you seen through them?
Have you felt ever how I cuddled up with words
At night on bed and joined them together
By strings of my Love, for you?
Have you ever cared to open them?
Have you ever cared to get how ink dripped
Quiet and fresh , every day from my pen,
Only to reach you?