In a room laden with dust and books sleeping in cartons,
under a roof baking in the sun, a pair of hands hems in
the halos of time with a list of chores and a letter…

A beaming face, a lovely you ordering the day
in minutiae, pruning it like a bonsai elm
red with its own renewal and reprise…

How sparkly the smallest sallies are,
how much like a fearless cavalry on nimble horses
possessed by emergence into its own becoming!

Taimur Khan


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