If I was a painter,

Like the untiring sun…

I would recreate:

The motes of dust,

That fill up a quiet, quiet

afternoon bedroom;

Revealed,

As things of complete abandon

Sometimes zipping,

Sometimes floating

Oblivious, completely oblivious

To the pull

Of gravity and reason

Settling everywhere,

From our own skin

From the window sill

The peepal tree leaves outside

And I believe, meteors themselves.

Or maybe, one of these little dancers,

Was a visitor from outer-space

Sent forth

To watch these giant lumbering fools

As clueless,

As those in Jack in the Beanstalk.

Soft! There they go…

Shooting across the vast space

Which my aunt’s swishing saree

Just rent asunder

As she got up

To make some tea.