Sunday, 24. September 2006
Changeling
The rain bent grass, still green,
spangled with reds and browns
of three-fingered maple leaves
reminds me of all those hands
that have laid over my body
as it pulsed under
some or the other weather:
always a changeling.
Note: Darkness outside; rain, the smell of it and the light of it; and Bhimsen Joshi's "Miyan ki Malhar" make words superfluous, nearly.
My Poems
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