Change

I am the changing seasons.
Violent swings.
And battling moods.
Heavy oppressive heat.
Crisp fresh air.
Baking sun.
Clouds and wind.
I am unstable.
At the joint between cycles.
Nature. Natural.
Nothing permanent.
Always in flux.
I know it, I resist it,
I know it.
Like summer to fall to winter.

Rain Comes Again

Today,
the rain comes
and washes my architecture
which had become heavy
and covered in dust and doubt.
A sudden monsoon downpour,
and it is clean again.

Only

I am here, only
the wind blows through me
past my bones
carrying drum beats
from across the city

I am here, only
a fragment of a myth
written but not remembered
of gods and heroes
and someone's truth

I am here, only
a man of flesh and blood
with no anchors
and no roots
but still, I am calm

Letter to a Poet

Dear Poet,

Your beard is aged and wise.
What truths did you discover fifty years before,
that I am only now leaving behind?
And when you wrote, was it in ink or pencil or blood?
Is it true that one must go in?  Or out? Or what?
And what of love?
What did you learn in all your years?
Does it come only once?
(a one-to-one special fit?)
Or is it ample, for the taking?
Should I pine?  Should I cry out?
And what meaning is there left to find?
Have you seen the world today?!
And what next would you suggest?
And after that...?
Oh Poet!  With your words,
share with me what you are supposed to know.
Guide me with your heightened emotions.
Some of us have none.

 Sincerity.

Sensitivity

In India, I see a man sleeping on the street,
in the dark space between the lamps.

His face is mashed into the hard concrete ground,
a black shadow of not-light or wetness beneath.

My stomach is full, I am contented,
I've just had a large meal.

I walk by,  closing the door behind me when I reach home.

Morning Sanctuary

My pocket of Delhi in the morning is alive with human footfalls and healthy breathing.
The autos have not yet awoken -- with their growls and bellows and rattling frames.
There is a gentle, early sun -- itself having just waked, and not yet full strength.
Two love birds coo on a shared wire; a chipmunk chases her mate.
The park is circled and circling with morning walkers -- all shapes and sizes,
Everyone and everything is brightly fixed on this new day.

I join the quiet morning, in this ancient and new town, in this city on earth.