Poem: Untitled Poem 4

India seizes us from the first moment, rushing, a confusion of horns, hands, language, faces. Children ragged, women as silk, flowers smell of fuel, sweat, curry, fire. India fumbles, lurches, swirls, collides, crushes, unfolds. We learn to walk with a slow stroll. Mother Earth, Mother Earth, I am here, I am here. Thay is our tender face, our wise child, our oasis. We allow his peace to teach us.

Ruby Odell, California

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