The String Tied To Your Finger
I remembered night.
How the night air felt sacred
like a string tied to my finger
reminding me
to breathe night
in the fragrance of crushed black flowers,
in the fragrance of sacred flowers.
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The visual & the poetic.
Tag: body
March 13, 2018
My Mother Did Not Speak to Me of Such Things
When I was young and my mother even younger in the history of the world I stood one day looking at the rain outside the window and on the window.
And my mother did not speak to me of rain upon the sculptures at the Hoysaleshvara temple in Halebedu, Karnataka, SW India, carved in the 1200s of the common era. No. She said farmers need the rain.
And my mother did not speak to me of astronauts or ancient astronauts or vimanas sailing through rain and cloud. No. She said farmers need the rain.
And I believed her. I had no reason to not believe my mother speaking of rain.
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