The Breeze Has No Name; We Name Every Gale by Kushal Poddar

The Breeze Has No Name

We name the hurricanes and columns of winds.

What will I tell this little breeze

who asks why we have

no name for it. It knocks down

a plastic tub and spilled

the ash I gathered from

the cremation and the stones

from the shore for a lean cactus.

The noise this wind makes

doesn't even stir my mother asleep

in the next room. A faint thunder

calls the wind back home.

By which name? It does not matter.

Rain washes everything away.

We Name Every Gale; Gales Do Not Know

The behaviour of the curtains change

after the wind chimes ring the first warning.

The sky now seen through the raised curtains

hide with the fall of those. This can be serene

or this can inhale your lungs and sigh it out

as a bloody shivering. The wind shrieks

and circles the sky. One feather, hawk patterned,

falls in our yard. The bushes are already bent.

On the floor the shadows of the clouds scurry

like a network of hair you have lost.

Every gale we lose something to the eternity.

Over a cup of tea we discuss what it will be this time.