A Clean Room

Loss weighs upon the heart as heavily as a lead ball,
a weight to be carried around everywhere.
In their quiet attempts to be kind,
(Kindness kills with a smile)
whispers seduce pity to their side;
A word to be mulled over,
this pity is perhaps of a texture somewhat rough:
an asphalt road after rain

A soft layer of fragrant dust 
covers the once-shining window;
A tree used to knock against it each night,
in an effort to be let in:
itself, defenceless against the cold night,
it warmed the cool window pane

A restlessness now pervades that window;
that room lies empty, waiting
for a shade to inhabit it again,
to rustle that clear sheen of yellow and orange dust

Orange and yellow: colours of the sun,
or a sunset enjoyed with a loved one:
a colour is sometimes missed,
seen from behind closed tear-filled eyes.
They play games, these tears:
they tickle and cool warm ruddy cheeks;
deathly pale, yellow: but that colour has no tears;
mingling drops of water produces a darker brown

Will a non-living window refuse shelter?
Will it refuse to be dusted down, cleaned?
Cleansing, that word linked to life, all too often;
sterelized cleanliness rankles that dust
The wait continues,
till a stone shatters the glass,
a branch breaks into the room,
and dies.

© Geetakshi Arora
    June 3, 2013