|Arjun, now deceased, in a doldrums mood.|
No blogging. Just a few poems begun, which is better than none, of course. Much better. One of them, tentatively titled "The Vishnu Bird" opens with a little song of promise.
The Vishnu bird startles me
this morning. Vishnu
vishnu, he calls from the tree
the locals call sarvis
because it blooms Eastertime,
calling the faithful to worship.
Barefooted, I'm walking out to the garden
in nightgown and bathrobe,
my coffee cup half full,
my head brimming over with another night's
How Vishnu, in his incarnation as bird, got into my back yard, who knows. Maybe he'll bring along some different rhythms and images.
Not even the garden has energized me as much this summer, though, Vishnu notwithstanding, when I walk out barefooted with coffee cup in hand. Our lettuces have been battered by rain and hail, our mustard greens gone to seed too early. No tomatoes at all.
Still, the edges of a few leaves are beginning to turn russet. The wind teases the hair on my arms. Something's coming, some change of cloud-drift, some shifting of the imagination's tectonic plates. Maybe. And though there are no tomatoes, there are cucumbers, and more cucumbers. What does that word sound like, cucumber?
I leave it to you to tell me.