I’m crawling out of this season of hard cold winter,
That stayed long enough. The bottom of my feet kicked up dirt on the hard asphalt. When I planted a mango tree it smelled of raw earth — Pulsing sun, dirt, and water. I do remember this. I pinned summer light upon my back And made no apologies for the space I took up — Barely clothed and sun-burned. To Read Nature poems.
Now, a ball of cotton in the grey sky. The sun rolls low on the horizon, hangs, Then dips behind a city block; Wind howling us into the night. Inside in the erratic rhythm of this flickering Shadows and light, I conjure up the potent sky of the longest day; Seeds, with a whole galaxy inside them. Cicadas vibrating outside On the branches of a giant neem tree. I never expected to find myself in such a cold place, My hands dry out against the cold. I let the memory out, let it linger on the horizon, Some kind of flying like a kite — again and again. I loosen the buckles of my mind to fly back in time, To the days of dried out paddy fields, and herds of cattle — I let it stay there. By Mukut Borpujari
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