I’m crawling out of this season of hard cold winter,
That stayed long enough.
The bottom of my feet kicked up dirt on the hard asphalt.
When I planted a mango tree it smelled of green earth—
Pulsing sun, dirt, and water.
I do remember this. I pinned summer light upon my back
And made no apologies for the space I took up—
Barely clothed and sun-burned.
Now, a ball of cotton in the grey sky.
The sun rolls low on the horizon, hangs,
Then dips behind a city block.
Wind howling us into the night.
Inside in the erratic rhythm of this flickering
Shadows and light,
I conjure up the potent sky of the longest day;
Seeds, with a whole galaxy inside them.
Cicadas vibrating outside
On the branches of a giant neem tree.
I never expected to find myself in such a cold place,
My hands dry out against it.
I let the memory out, let it linger on the horizon,
Some kind of soaring like a kite—again and again.
I loosen the buckles of my mind to fly back in time,
To the days of dried-out paddy fields, and herds of cattle—
I let it stay there.