Turning Point Poem by Ananta Madhavan

He quoted from the stars as though that proved the point;
Sensing drama in the turn of a car at the gateway,
Or the fall of a letter on the doormat,
Like a sigh of desolate waiting;
Or the infant telephone in shrill complaint against its cradle,
Demanding to be taken up and coddled,
Or even the rare tree
That quivered in rapturous lightning.


Who signals the denouement does it in subtler ways,
Not through these hard, heralding omens,
The bric-a-brac of playwrights without plots,
But in some change of mood upon a nameless day,
After or maybe during breakfast,
Remembering a crescent moon
Seen suddenly as a silver fruit-bowl.