The quiet hours

Glass panes divide
the trees and sky
in separate rectangles.

Strains of a sitar reverberate,
forming labyrinth of octaves

Putting away the wall clock
from my view,
you take me through
the channels in floor design,

hovering over flowers
on my curtains.

Outside,
daylight and darkness shift

a tabla comes alive.

We glide along
ripples of high and low
in quiet hours.