A hundred-year-old man still lives
in a house that no longer is.
He is hundred when I am five,
the time so alive that it defeats
the greed of calendars. No day
can replace its namesake, but each
is a semblance of a blameless tune
gliding in a continuum.
The heart of the house still flowers
in a roominess that has outlived
the walls we called ours, every
gone brick thriving on presences,
prim in their vanishings, nimble
in their comebacks. Not a single
atom ever empties itself
of its nucleus on its own.
-30-
Copyright©Madras Courier, All Rights Reserved. You may share using our article tools. Please don't cut articles from madrascourier.com and redistribute by email, post to the web, mobile phone or social media.Please send in your feed back and comments to editor@madrascourier.com
