after we write poems about stool
and a crow, love and its remorse
we go on to Lord god with prayer,
a blue god with a butter in mouth
the very God who lifted mountain
for cows against heaven’s anger
He who spread camphor and love
In an antline of people in the hills.
why not write poems when women
turn sixty, like how we write them
about small -big things ,the thread
that passes binding us to infinity
little things that make their poetry
and mine on the edges of a night.
sixty is milestone in the vastness
of infinity that stretches before us.