Poem: A Work in Progress
I look through my window,
upon the city
from my safe Retreat,
clutter in the street,
saris, bright with embroidery
right under the moon.
Three-wheeled rickshaws parked in lines
form a grid under a no-parking sign.
Moist burgundy mud,
traces of fungus
and cinnamon in the air.
From deep within the wells of memory,
simple village structures manifest:
gently inclined roofs,
cow dung brewed with hay,
splashing colors scattered around a market place—
in the midst.
Dreams, visions and experiences
architectural designs of some cosmic happenings:
Nimble fingers probe and rearrange,
each sculpture an accomplished masterpiece
comprised of cubist rectangles and squares.
Walls and rooftops recombine—
Then once again I erase
ideas rubbed against my mind’s own grays.