Windmills on
the Western Ghats,
the collar bone of the earth,
white turbines
threshing the sky into cirrus
like foremothers of the hills
who know power
is always summoned
out of thin air.
***
In Shimla
it always rains twice,
once, from the sky,
then, when the pines drip.
The same with you, Lalita,
once, when you went,
then, as it hit.