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!
