father ties knots on fresh handmade kites
under the small light bulb on the terrace.
He touched those 40 years ago
in the open fields of his village
and flew the kites on full moon nights.
I don’t have many memories with him.
I don’t have his stories.
The sky is
milky, pashmina*, opal stone,
blooming mogra* of my mother’s heart.
I cut my finger, I let the sunset enter and stay there.
Father releases the kites and for the first time
*mogra- a type of jasmine flower, pashmina- hand crafted cardigans of Kashmir