He is like the dust mite bitten, golden brown edged, aged leaf
Of a book she has known all her life; the scent of which makes her believe there were days
She could sink in the thrill of living,
Embracing the known, untroubled by the unknown, and there is a future
That will grow to be a part of that unknown, stably and quietly,
Like the colours he captures in his photographs
Without aspiring to be a photographer;
Like the songs he records for her, as he strums the guitar strings
Without seeking to be a renowned singer;
Like the interest he takes in innovations across the world,
Passionately telling her about them,
Yet rooted to his farm, doing what must be done
Ever so poised and buoyant;
Like his anecdotes and poetry, all speaking of poignant observations in the laymen’s lives
Penned during solemn moments, on rainy days and lonesome nights,
Without wishing to be an august writer;
Like the way he welcomes routine mundane chores, without a whine
As if there is nothing more enlivening,
Even during long summer days, dripping sweat, happily humming away
Passing this mortal coil without waiting for anything to happen that excites.
But when that leaf is flipped by a gust of breeze,
She watches him running like a madman towards the horizon
Over the marshes, rivers, hills, forests, meadows
Carelessly
Wailing with joy, and perhaps with the pain of remembrance of thousand empty days
Days, when his people expected and waited for something to happen, and gradually drifted away.
Casually Classical 