Awaiting the dawn at Golaghat

Bihu curls her henna-stained fingers
 The nude pink paint overshadowed
  by shades of orange,
       like her mind now at pseudo calm
it has been eons since she scribbled
as she watches the dark night
her garden filled with orchids,
         asleep for the night
         she hasn't and it is day two
         maybe today, maybe somehow
unbeknownst to her, her heart wants to write
yet her words hide like her nail paint
                under exhaustion,
                 under grey skies
maybe tomorrow she will hear the cuckoo sing
          blend its zeal and feel wide awake
                tomorrow , yes
tomorrow she will write, and I will read
I wait for Bihu's poems, like a mesmerised child