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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required We are sitting at a table at the café by the station, We are watching people passing, We are guessing destinations. We are waiting for our order, Chatting mother with a daughter. And we're talking of the old man As he's waiting at the crossing. We are wondering his journey Of the route he may be taking - A corduroy curiosity in his thin brown coat, Plastic bags that carry string and other things of note. Then all of a sudden, he is wandering our direction, Charming and addressing us as “Ladies”, Pretending he is thinking we are sisters, Indulging him, we're happy to be listeners. He has a sunny disposition, Though he is saying of his vision That his eyes are getting cloudy - He must go see an optician. And he's telling us his stories of his Sunday-ing allotments, Hearing of his winning, echoes of past glories. Cultivating prizes for the growing and the showing of his champions - Centurion onions, parsnips gladiator, Okra, bhut bhindi, coriander. Then purposefully he's pulling from his pocket, from his wallet A worn photo of a young man looking back at us. His is sharing how they wanted for their boy they named Ishaan, A boy, with his head in the clouds - To be reaching for the stars and the sun. Without pausing he is telling us scholarship was won. Astrophysics he was studying. Careering off to NASA, space systems engineering. But Ishaan is soon returning From the Californian dreaming - Yearning to be grounded in the rhythms of the seasons. Coming back to his roots. Following the passing of his mother and reconnecting with his father In the routines that are gardening. Working quiet soils, where seeds are just beginning As the world keeps on spinning. To stand still awhile. Then he is leaving, he is gone. And in silence we are finishing our coffees and paying for our bill. Feeling we have travelled, Though, we were only sitting still.
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