The drama of a storm.
Lava-sky sunrises.
Coming home to a tidy room;

Clean, creasless bedsheets.
The curling eyelashes of sleeping children;

the fragrance of a baby head.
A brush of lips on my head when I’m working (The nothing-is-needed-I-just-remembered-how-much-you-make-me-happy-walla-peck).
Mornings. The cool hush of dawn.

The call of birds.

The crunch of gravel under my shoes.
Quilted toilet paper.
Two tall kids who brighten up when they see me. (Who are they? And how beautiful! When did you both grow up, my babies?)
The rust red wings of the Coucal in flight.
Eggs, runny yolks with puttu-kadla.
The smell of a new book.
A pirouetting Bombax seed.
Chrysanthemum. White chrysanthemums. HandheldLongstalkedwhite chrysanthemums.
Giant lotuses in a still pool.
Dragonflies with rainbows in their gossamer wings.
Pixies. Because they are there under leaves. And they’ll show themselves to me.
Temple bells. Church bells. Wind chimes.
Polished wood. Book shelves full of books.
Gnarled tree trunks. Newborn translucent leaves.
Long drives. Hot sweet chai.

Music. Love notes. Lace. Fairy lights.
Books, books, books.