Not for its familiarity
Nor for its comforts
Nor even its dull grey beauty
But for its being
An integral part
Of my being
In the early, decrepit morning
On the side of a busy, urban road
And no one cares to notice, but me
But that’s India: mad as a hatter
A million times a day
Absurd until it seems normal
To build the pyres
For funeral blaze
Lit from embers
Of Shiva’s fire
Burns every hour
Of every day
Four thousand years
And still today
And then it does
But only for a moment
Until something else
Pulls it away
In this visual cacophony
Of a culture traveler’s feast
Playful ritual
Paddling on styrofoam
While mother washes
So I settled in
To setup the shot
When a little girl
Ran through it
So I fell in love
With her too
Everyday:
A little music
A little dance
Even better:
A lot
I heard
But did not hear
You exiting the door
And my eye
Was on a scooter
For which I’d waited
Pix to Words 