Quiet Waters

She spends her mornings curled on a bench,

The sky is baby blue and white in patches,

The trees bend on their knees to sing her a lullaby,

Like a mother to an aging child,

The wind gently brushes her grey hair.

Not too neatly tied,

The folds of her sari fall to the side,

Shrunken in size it reaches her calves,

She sleeps, at peace.

On another bench at another time,

An old man lies down to close his eyes,

He taps his fingers on the bench softly humming to himself,

Children squealing, swings creaking,

The weathered face is absolutely still,

Soaking in the wonders of the space around him,

Content, fulfilled.

In the distance the afternoon azaan is being made,

The notes from praying throats merge in the air,

Swimming through the noise, unseen, unheard by many,

They reach the quiet waters of an overwhelmed heart.