By Taranjana Singh
Everything is just as it should be, perfect as it is.
The sun, the birds, the vast expanse of green.
The love, the words, the jug filled with sweet iced tea.
The lazy summer afternoon, the melon seeds.
The whiff of fresh hot bread loaf with the sticky orange marmalade.
The sheer cotton curtains flowing in and out the wood-framed window.
As if calling out to the woods and the running stream.
The white wild summer flowers and about a fifty odd colorful butterflies.
The rhythmic pecking of the woodpecker.
The occasional thud of ripe mangoes falling off the tree in our backyard.
The earthy musky petrichor of the forenoon showers.
The book of love poems on the yellow wing chair by the French windows,
Old letters and dried flowers carefully tucked inside it.
An old record with the jazz strumming heart strings.
Everything is just how it should be,
Sans the feeling of being here, being home,
The home that once was.