Once upon a time,
in a leather wallet a little torn,
lived a small, small penny,
his spirit just born.
All his life, he watched money come and go,
bills and coins, smooth paper checks
...
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The sun shines differently in India, warmth burning around me like I'm a candle wick, a baby swaddled
in a quilt blanket, and a lotus flower
whose roots are enveloped by water soil.
I feel peace like I'm woven between the threads of silk sarees, pushed by Ganga's tide, and carved into the thousand pillars of stone temples.
I hold my Ammamma's hand, full of wrinkles and softer than silk, her cool breath against my forehead, eyes bright and unseeing, and I know I'm hers.
The red Indian fire lives in both of us.
in a quilt blanket, and a lotus flower
whose roots are enveloped by water soil.
I feel peace like I'm woven between the threads of silk sarees, pushed by Ganga's tide, and carved into the thousand pillars of stone temples.
I hold my Ammamma's hand, full of wrinkles and softer than silk, her cool breath against my forehead, eyes bright and unseeing, and I know I'm hers.
The red Indian fire lives in both of us.