Strange Meetings

Sometimes we run into someone
just for once in our lives
and our bones refuse
to fit inside the skin
the same way.
Plans proceed as waves
and recede as doubts.
A fleeting joy
with gnawing pangs
of apprehension
the stretch between
experience and fear
seems like the time taken by a fish
to reveal and conceal itself
in front of a fish hook.

__

Grandma

The flowers are moving.
She must have whispered
something to them!
The waters are murmuring
She must have shown them a path!
I lie on my knees
mystified beside her bed
waiting for her    to speak
and deliver me from my despair.
Wrinkled skin
pressed against the edge of an old cot
hangs out     to touch my forehead.
GrandMa is not dead. Her spirit is.
I am being killed by her ennui
and her feeble longing to work again.
Neither am I dying nor her languor.
Reflections     as skipping stones
are leaping over my melancholy.
Why do I feel my years
getting locked in a second?