To my mother

                                                                                   Bangalore, August-2011

With the falling of dusk
She would match,
A fresh cotton dress
She had carefully unwrapped;

In front of the mirror
Then she would sit,
Powdering her face
And then lipstick;

As we gathered, all around her
For that spray of familiar fragrance,
She was up, ready to go
Where to, no one knew;

She would talk
Of neighbours and then,
Children with all their
Successful acquaintance;

It mattered little
We listened or giggled,
With burst of energy, she could mean
A minor revolt all by herself;

We had grown accustomed to her
Her misgivings, her manners,
Curious she was, of all the things
Agreeable or not, with her opinion;

She did not let go, till her very end
Anything, anytime, or anyone,
All but some, could realise
Her youth in age, had turned;

Now I sit and read
The verses she would write,
With such serenity and poise,
Gifted only, to the saintly wise.

(Coincidentally found that Edgar Allen Poe too had a similarly titled poem; If you are here, do not go away without reading 'The Raven' by Edgar Allen Poe and 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' by T.S. Eliot, two of my all time favorites; thank you.)