by Meera Singh
Silver and Gold
by Srija Nagireddy
In History, we learned that monks used to illuminate
How aging hands lovingly embellished the words
Of their hearts.
You now laugh and say that you are getting old,
And show me the crest of white upon your head,
How it fades into an ebony that deft fingers
Twist every morning.
You only shine when no one looks,
And I watch from behind the kitchen door,
Because there is something holy about the way your
Ordinary smile disappears, and I can only see faith.
Faith in the world and Religion
That changes with every breath I take and flows through
Sacred books and whispered words, and reluctant wishes,
With you as the only constant.
And you act so much like a child, with inside jokes and
Fanciful whims, that I sometimes wonder if you are trying
To keep us young. Out of reach of pained smiles and
Remnants of corrupted memories.
You are forever illuminating your manuscript,
And behind eyes that never shed tears, and laughs
That ring in my ears every night, I see you painting the story
Of your heart in silver and gold.