The Answer.

“Where does she live?” he asked.

“She lives by the highway in a shack,

Which has lay within its gate and beyond its awning,

An oasis amidst the dazed city,

 Rich with Bohemian weeds and archaic toads and balmy geysers,

 Adorned by decorative earthenware depicting taboo legends and,

 Small fire boxes of potted red clay storing sunshine from the day,

For use into the brink of twilight to facilitate her veiled trysts;

 A stone oven near the alcove in whose furnace she burns her paintings,

 Upon every fourth week of their completion,

While wild butterflies gather above to the aromatic fumes let out by the pastels

 And fly in tandem to the tunes from her rusty phonograph,

In cahoots with the singings from the brass piano I play with on the silk divan,

 After she feeds me crushed fruit bathed in honey through wooden spoons off of a ceramic bowl,

 Carried on forth from her mother,

For whom she cooks on Saturdays when the kitchen with her green cabinets,

Smell of rosemary and buttered garlic,

 A feast often wished to serve to my father,

Who misses it at his own misfortune” replied his son.

                                                                              - Diwakar B