the home, a house

w h e n
endearing chatter & loud murmurs
are replaced by
deafening silences & soft whispers

w h e n
loving caresses & forehead kisses
are reduced to
accidental brushes & hesitant eye contact

w h e n
the carefree atmosphere & relieving comfort
is defeated by
troubled glances & recurring heartache

w h e n
effort to make amends & mutual understanding
is conquered by
dishonest apologies & pretend empathy

w h e n
involuntary smiles & reasons to return
are crippled by
stinging tears & excuses to leave

the home starts to feel like a house

 

the garment of grace

slithering gracefully around her torso,
a garment woven of silk
but of culture and tradition more so;
embroidered on each fold
of its endless length,
is beauty painted in gold;
with its loose end over her arm,
she’s a walking ornament,
trailed by elegance and charm;
the presence of everyone around,
by her grandly simple fabric,
is eclipsed into the background;
this subtly beautiful apparel,
is anything but a mere article of clothing
it’s a saree, a woman’s quiet laurel.