Everything is in free fall. There you are — standing on the bridge between life and death, between being something and becoming something else, between anticipation and foreboding, between then and thereafter, between what you were meant to be and what you will be when it is over.
And every word, every breath, every thought, leaves you to flutter downwards into the snaking continuum, not belonging to you before it was yours, not yours after it has belonged to you for that one moment — passing through your presence, changing you, changing itself, drifting rushing, reaching into the ever-moving. Still you wait with hopes and dreams in your sad eyes as if the tumult of the shuddering universe has taught you nothing.
sky or sea or wind –
this first monsoon cloud?
Water to Water, my first poetry collection, is now available on Amazon – US, UK and India
And the monk sat, like a cloud, at peace, the way you can
unfurl at a safe distance from people, speaking softly, the
way spring rain writes on leaves, about life and illusion and
the journey of souls that leaves us behind, the way a snake
trades one skin for another. I wanted to ask if I could shed
this skin you touched, memories etched on it like scars that
would never heal. I wanted to ask if I could be washed and
anointed in a sunshine unguent, the way a bride is bathed
before her wedding, healing turmeric running down her
face and neck, the way the old sky is made to masquerade
as a new one each morning. But I am just the moulted life
of a writhing soul, holding on for a flutter, the way a name
is carried in the fist of the wind, for a distance. A sunset drips
yellow, the way time passes, faster when nobody is watching.
Image by Sharon McCutcheon (Picture Prompt provided by Visual Verse)