Towards evening
a strand of tinsel
strings across my veranda
its loose ends rustling in the wind.
A row of diyas stow on the ledge
smelling of clay.
The marigold hangs
at the front door  hemmed together
its aroma filling up the corridor.
I put a bottle of rockets
in the slender glass and light a fire.
The rockets hisses, pops, and glints into the sky
a wisp of smoke curls lazily into the air.
As the night darkens
a splash of tinsel, and the diyas scintillate                        reminding me of my wedding night.                                              And through my half-open window the deusi-bhailo continuous to resonate late into the night.