my fingers draw patterns on fogged glass, downstairs
the street smudged by a slippery season clogging
the quaint town with the stench of puffed wood and
occasional touches of passerbys whispering taunts
that get replaced by smoke from tobacco pipes
while the lonely houses fixate their gaze
towards the hazy peaks troubled by clouds the
greyness of noon is plucked by that one colourfully
dressed lady carrying a large bag, crossing the street
and stopping over to buy some vegetables,
her pink scarf becoming a colourful star
later she cooked me for and I thanked her for everything
the beef stew seasoned with mountain salt and pepper
the scarf- I asked whether I could have it, she smiled
and let me carry home an old teacup
on which colours mixed like moody rainbows, curtailed
by the discipline of patterns
winter’s eyes open
…other thrushes join
The cold mountain sleeps calmly.
On awakening, the morning’s white blanket
reveals trees little by little.
Monochrome silhouettes of conifers, yawning
through the moist fog of autumn, finches,
flycatchers and resonant barbets
compose the valley in unison.
Women mount the sack of hay, their back
crooked and burdened by the slope, smiling
they wave at us from the waterfall. Horde
of mules and one excited dog engulf and leave us.
The sky opens into blue.
I touch the barks of a hundred trees, stepping
over each stone like a syllable in a long story.
The moss cushions my progress as magpies glide
from path to path
Sounds of a temple find me faintly
The mountain meditates like a master.
the hill with no trees
the town with square windows
the conifers peppered with snow
and those little streams which ran
through the blooming potato farms
all have been touched
by the traveling glance of my eyes
I have absorbed the country breath by breath
every ray fermenting a new image
each peak narrating a different view
each incense stick a growing artwork of smoke
every temple bell a portal for an echo
in the song of the forest