the lady that weaves gajras in her lap
looks up when the needle goes down
[into beads of white perspiration
queuing directionless certainty
waiting in her hands
to be in a braid hair-hiding till night/ perish on a painting before dawn]
while
gathering and ungathering
a rope

nature's leaf is gold
so he leaves  them be   on blue plastic
to be/come for a moment
and returns to find     none stolen
none taken   under the sun's security
and fellowship of open air

bangles in a garland around her neck
hangs a lace of sweet sound swaying to the train's whim,   
of colours
and circles  canvas her carotids     open up where the knot
unties    lets them out at stations
silencing silences
but keeps some for tomorrow's wrist

8/1/21