Memory and 2 other poems

We are happy in our secret plant ways,
rooted to the birthplace,
looking for the sun,

trying to find all rhombus patterns
and break them,
preserving ancient moon-blotches
on our ring-fingers and forearms

Living an introvert person’s exciting life
for nothing,
We grow a deciduous forest

in autumn
at the back of our mind
where oddly crimson banyan figs

lie scattered
throughout the summer months like multiple desires
of a plant’s heart

Fog weeds out
tea estates and pine forests in Tindharia hills
with a whitewash till noon

Cart road, railway tracks,
dark gorges, occasional vehicles,
silent waterfalls sleep
deep inside the folds of a double mist

Before the fog lifts at noon,
I find
white crows flying, white mustard fields,
a white church
near some white rhododendrons;

down the village,
a white tractor, empty,
heading for a white post office

On top of the hill,
I notice two identical houses, side by side
White

All their windows and doors are closed
Twin houses hemmed by white pine forests
like Himalaya’s bushy eyebrows,
old

Icicles hang like fingers and knives
from the coniferous trees, as if,
winter has rained

weapons and cut off hands all night
on mountains,
valleys and on the road to the monastery

atop a hill in northern Bhutan
where I am going. It seems to be an end
of a war, somewhere, at last

It is calm and peaceful everywhere
I search out
a block of ice which traps a green fern inside

like a memory
It reminds me of a Kim Ki Duk film
and much more about life