Ripping, roaring thunder. Rain that never falls.
Tibetan flags blow in the breeze, the monasteries call.
Mist moves up the mountain in an uneven mirage.
It clears- I see the cedars. It thickens into fog.
Crows who caw up in the trees are harbingers of death.
But life is pulsing through me and I cannot feel bereft.
I’ll sing this song to you, instead, of travel and of life
Of feeling your heart beating when you stop to close your eyes.
Of love and doubt and dreams and hurt, of possibilities.
Of Indian sparrows and tiny inchworms who live up in the trees..
A swirl of faces, foreign names, peanut butter toast.
Of all the New Age authors, Mr. Osho’s got the most.
Books on courage, books on love, creativity.
Without a doubt he’s cornered the market on spirituality.
My clothes are drying on the line, they decorate the day.
I fall asleep and dream of passion, questions kissed away.
Yesterday we talked of worms, amoebas, dysentery.
Today I’d like a quiet lunch, a cup of steaming tea.
And so I bid you all adieu, it’s time to walk to town.
To order veggie momos that are fried until they’re brown.
But oh, alas, monsoon has come! It’s pouring from the sky.
The thunder rips, the railing drips, the land is getting high.
On water, oh, intoxication, deep, organic bliss.
As welcome as a long lost lover’s often dreamt of kiss.