Do you remember the wise man
Of our kite-flying, butterfly-chasing childhood,
The one with the unkempt beard and matted hair
Who early every morning waddled to the beach
To praise and worship his rising sun
On one leg, two legs, sometimes four
Depending on the intensity of his latest
Hangover? The older girls, in your teens,
Giggled into their moist palms, whispering about
The legend of the fool in tattered robes
Sleeping in the forest hermitage
Hinting at forbidden fruit
You were not ripe enough to see – –
I recollect that his smile was like sunlight
Illuminating a beam of dust
And that his mumbled words, struggling to escape
The bondage of sentences, sounded like
A prayer lost in transit.
Wonderful poem with vivid imagery
Thank you very much, Vatsala.