Old Things

I love old things -
milestones of moments
frozen
inside moments,
used, bruised,
knocked around -
stories of survival
and resolve,
that sit now
by themselves,
on freshly painted walls,
and slow rocking chairs,
pickled in air-tight chests,
or seasoned like old wine
in dark forgotten closets;
suspended in moments
of holding their breath,
for that quiet celebration
by little hands -
where the lines
of the heart
and life,
are still being drawn.

A Postscript

I speak my heart,
I sing my song -
a thousand names
for pain and joy;
a desperate clinging
to moments
of not knowing
that flow and melt
like lemon drops
in the mouth of a child,
with no beginning or end;
and yet I scurry
like a fearful rabbit
looking to capture that hole
through which
all things pass -
known and unknown;
the hole
I think and believe
is me.

Flavours of Love

a heart burns up
with the orange sky,
strings tug inside
when a dear friend cries,
eyes awash with notes
which engulf the very core,
words swallowed in silence -
they choose to speak no more,
a koel's call explodes
into the quiet of a dreamy morn,
the melting voice of a loved one
wraps me in chocolatey warmth,
the tiny green sprouts
peek out from the brown loam,
the guttural laughter of my son
being completely himself, at home,
the anchored emptiness
of being with a burning flame,
the sound of water flowing
slowly, through a decrepit drain;
all flavours of love.
limitless. free.
why hold on to only one,
when there are so many to feel?
why look for hidden reasons
when there are different flavours,
for different seasons?