My festival or yours?

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 festival

My place or yours?  My pulse or yours? Immaterial.

Happy Durga Puja to you if you are celebrating!