|Leaf on bench. Lucknow Residency. January 22.|
Peace when it comes isn’t white, nor a dove
with an olive branch delicately held
in its beak. Nor a dusk skypink with love,
an even horizon where the days meld
into nights without fuss. It’s more a pulse -
a flare of time, hardly seen, hardly felt
rawred buds of sun, raucous squawks of gulls,
frozen cusps of dreams that sizzle and melt
like snowflakes falling into volcanos.
Peace, when it comes, is in a rush to leave
folding up its flags, scrunching up its logos,
allowing only the briefest of reprieves.
Folding and refolding everything small
as if to shrink itself, efface its shortfalls.