Autumn quilts

It is the season in India to bring out the quilts from their tombs hoping they lived through the brutish summer and humid months of monsoon,

and spread them
under a gentler sun
of the October sky.

It is the season
to bury faces
in their warmth
and take in the aroma
of naphthalene
that rises from within

It is the season
for the autumn rituals
of letting quilts be free
And of feeling the ache
of another year gone by.

It is the season in India
to learn once again
of impermanent self.

A decrepit self

Senior sheets in the closet
have their crispness lost,
mature towels
worn down to 300 gsm.

Aged, and yet,
they feel soft
when they wrap
the nakedness underneath.

It is such a pleasure
to have few things
loved and well used.

Perhaps, someone thinks
the same
for my decrepit self.

Existential crisis - which way to go?

Emerged in the sunlight
from the depths
of the London underground.

Don’t know
to go left
or to go right.

Which way is the alley
to the Café SoulDelite?

Botox

It is merely a temporary fix.

There is an Inevitability
to the wrinkles;
they march incessantly
shrouded in the darkness
of night;

like ants
for a speck of grain
on the floor.

Botox,
try, but you cannot dupe
ticking of clocks.