A memory is born

Sand slips.
The hourglass stands.

Granules fall—bit by bit,
passing through the alleys
of my mind.

I stare with unblinking eyes
at the ray of sunshine
sketching vertical lines on the wall.

Moving images turn into
a single sepia still.
A memory is born.

Of winds and fog

They were alive yesterday.
Gone now, but haven’t left.
Invisible in their presence,
perhaps clouded by fog,
making figures
you once identified.

Of ghosts at war
Or self image,
Rising to kiss the earth.
In tear-shaped remnants of love.

Or is that cloud
The dead thing
We had alive between us?

Or are they fluffy pillows
My head had rested on?
Now, gliding away
In the vague winds.

And the wind still blows
And its caress haunts.
The tide is yet to turn.
The fog is yet to lift.
The mist is yet to dry.
The cloud is yet to pass.
There is a lot of rain left inside.