It is not what you thought it was –
it is not the looking upwards
into the pearl-pale sky where
the laced leaves of flame-of-the-forest
darken blue and drop their faded fire
into the dim pools of evening.
It is this – this
spiraling inwards to the deepening
end of day, the dark rock at the centre
of the world, of your being,
that morphs into a father and son,
mother and child, a companion
whichever way your head,
or heart, turns.
It is this – this
downward gaze at each rhythmic step
of the path of shining stones
softened by recent rains, this rust-red beetle
that smiles from its back, this peeping
gecko. It is this sprouting seed
that I have picked up to plant
in more welcoming soil. It is
insects and scent of holy basil
rising, making sweet the air.