Every day I fly to the tree with the twisting branches
and gaze at her through the window.
The lady with the tired eyes and colorful silk saris
stained by sweat and spilt food
as she cooks all day.
I notice the tiny kitchen,
brimmed with pots and pans
and no room to breathe,
tighten around her through the window.
The lattice panels bend into parallel prison bars
that she stays confined to.
Without knowing her voice,
I’ve learned her story through the window.
Without knowing her name,
I sing for her through the window.
And sometimes, she glances up.
She looks at me,
through the window.
Maybe looking for a distraction,
maybe looking for a companion.
But those moments pass by quickly
and she continues to cook all day.
