For a Word Monger,
it is an unsuspected relief
to wash his strain
in poems that don't hide;
poems made of glass,
poems that touch causally
upon the existence we all wear & tear;
the sensation of your fingertips
lightly tapping the keyboard and my forehead

Your poems are the gusts of wind
that softly move the window curtains in summer,
and the hunger that gathers the birds at the feeder in winter

They strive not to prove anything;
like TAO they browse the details of the All
and back,
in an all but imperceptible smile

They're soft-spoken,
full of unconditional compassion,
spelling the name of Avalokithesvara,
bombing me with invisible shelters

Your light observations, serene & impartial,
make me calm
like a little kid at a puppet show
or an old man like me
living a Ram Narayan raga
or a late Beethoven string quartet

Your poems dance
like the fire in the stove,
like the snow flakes outside my window

Your voice lets me rest in cool sheets
when I'm feverish

Sona, you're a sonar, listening deep!