There is a certain throb of dark, a shift of earth
underfoot, a certain pulse of air that connects
me instantly, and connects without reserve
somewhere where the meanings move, the warp and weft
thread on thread, gold and red mesh and merge and create
the sculpted stones and ancient tombs and wizened stars
and kid laughter. And daisy fields of happy face
and seaweed soft plush frozen drips meltwaters.
I have missed all my festivals of pinwheel buds
deep tangerine at one end, I have missed much more :
the proud skyshows of light and smoke and sandalwood.
I’m mindful of the applefalls but don’t keep score.
But if that’s at hand then that’s enough for a festivalMy place or yours? My pulse or yours? Immaterial.
Happy Durga Puja to you if you are celebrating!