My pen-friend

His letters paint pictures
of his autumn. Though he never tells
how big or how small his house is,

he lovingly mentions a narrow corridor,
the interplay of light and shades over guava
trees in his garden.

He sends me photographs of rare florets
with odd looking beetles exploring their skin,

And he says in his native land such flowers
often get self pollinated.

He rues a lot for his old walking stick,
his most dependable companion
of more than a decade, which he lost
in a cab earlier this month.

The newer one is yet to get acquainted
to his whims. It screeches and grumbles

whenever he etches out a name
on the ground with its edge,
sitting alone on a garden chair

in a fading twilight.