Thursday, May 24, 2018


the snow
the people
the wind
everyone and everything

are running away
from these mountains
like tears from a face
to a simpler place

to easier times
to caged birds
to fruitless trees
and peaceful bees

on noisy roads
to predictable clouds
over straighter lines
holding readable signs

Except Uttravahini
Flowing back home
Oh her nerve
Straight giving way to curve

To the hills
waving to the wind
Like the other
Returning to an old lover

In a town
Full of ghosts
And a readable tome 
Back to her home

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