My mother sees me gardening
And knows the reason I’m there:
The claypot with his ashen bones
Is somewhere near the jasmine roots.
My mother sees me with his watch
And knows the reason I’m there:
The lonely ticking second hand
Is keeping tempo of my dreams.
My mother sees me shine his shoes
And knows the reason I’m there:
The leather is still splitting out
To fit my unaccustomed feet.
Minakhi Misra 