sometimes, even if for but a moment,

the most crowded street in the bustling city

can be a refuge – a place a quiet and solace –

from everything in your world

reaching for your attention.


8 thoughts on “

  1. Reminds me of a poem I had published about four years ago… hope you don’t mind if I put it here.
    Standing in the cold, city rain, she would catch the suddenSpice-laden fragrance of the fields.Merely a trick,Yet she would tilt her head to the sky,Umbrella drooping to brush the asphalt,Remembering the wild, monsoon rains.
    She still snaps out the heavy wet clothingAnd fastens it on the line,Neighbors staring at the open wardrobe dancing in her yard.But she knows the magic scent of sun-dried sheets.She remembers the rough hands that carefully folded themWhile she twined around those still hanging as tents.
    She cradles carefully the orange, before ripping it apart,Still feeling the sting of too many peelingsUnderneath her fingernails.Once her hands bled from the pruning of the treesUntil the stickiness of fruit and blood and sweatBrought the flies.
    Even them she would miss,For that was when things were real.Just once -She would like once more to liveUnder the scent of the monsoon rains.
    The crowd eddies around her.Bending down,She lifts her umbrella,Shutting out the deluge of longingWith a safe layer of pattering plastic,And shuffles again along the steaming asphalt.

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