In a sun-battened oak grove,

bare because it is winter, and in America because this is where dreams travel to, in the holds of ghostly slavers every night,

Radhika re-plants herself again in the cold red clay, an Ancient World cutting - let's say that of tulasi - sowed in the soil of this New World,

her thin arms tentatively branching upwards into the light, uncertain if she will stay alive, will give birth, will be heard by the dark hued lord

of the world, who is so far away from Birmingham, Alabama, or Delhi, Iowa, perhaps busy in play in the moonlit groves of Vrindavan, perhaps forgetful

of all the worlds once glimpsed entire in his throat, even this one, where Radhika will perfect her art of waiting, and also wanting.

Notes: Location: The Cave, Atlanta Time: A Sunday winter morning, January 2008 Background music: Ustad Rashid Khan's pyrotechnic Raga Bhirav from his album The Song of Shiva