Thus I speak to the clothes-
That the sun has reached its peak
That there is very little time left to dry up;
That the tender finger tip of the breeze
Is getting ready to leave,
That the shadows have started showing
On the earth…
Some clothes inside the basket, dirty
Some half soaked, having turned noisily
Inside the machine,
Half in the drier,
Few milk coloured ones,
Within my arms,
Those folded, to be kept inside
Far off in the valley of the sky,
I see the thousands
Of white lambs, resting.
The aged sun, trying to cover its
Bristling inner heat , purely.
The shapeless radiance
Present, disappearing, shining.
In the earth, through my finger tips
The turmeric stain, mud stain,
The deep stain of love that resists,
Some memory stain of a dinner
A stain showcasing the distances
Travelled in a train journey;
An ink stain holding on
Rebelliously, from an ink pot
The play stain that stuck along with
My son, as he left the play ground.
The face paint stain of the father
Who enacts different roles in the
Drama of life..
Disappearing stains, even as the sun shine
Quick! There is so much beauty
My beloved clothes-
Drinking in the sunlight, the wind
Water, my own truth,
Rhythmically, to the tunes
Of my fingers,
During the endless chores,
With love, tireless, towards
The life source, as soon
Published in KalaKaumudi, 2009.