a small town called barsana,
trees etched in emerald- gold
gold-dust lines the winding lanes
every morning,
the sun sprinkles fistfuls
fine spun gold.

wise winds blow. so they should.
a thundering gale from an old forgotten epic
dry scorching currents too, persistent
a winter waft cuts in from Siberia
Time, ruins;
the endless march of seasons.

the ether echoes proud with his name, unsaid.
millennia-old, yes.
you, perhaps, could reach out and touch it.
in this play of mirrors, mirrors within mirrors
that one happenstance,
a meher
every particle dizzily resonates with.
~

someday sometime
if ever we’re skin to skin, you and I
cleave to me
the grit of bitter desert sands
the anguish in the echo of a footstep
angry interstellar storms
the acrid curse of that lava river
lashing arctic high winds
be at peace,
if only for
that splinter of time.