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!