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.





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