Early morning heavy snow

Yard table in night snow . . . Another foot expected tonight/tomorrow.

I lift up
cancer by the armpits and turn it
toward its walker. Although

omnipotent, its body
is weak
as it pushes forward, wobbling

as it goes, miraculously
draining life from everything
it sees. Amazed

by cancer’s power to outlive
our grief, all those who have gathered
to study it

grow surly, knowing
it has left us
dead inside. Still

life continues. I lift up
cancer by the armpits and turn it
toward its walker. It keeps

going, on and on.

More than 2 ft. (about two-thirds of a meter) of snow fell Friday/Saturday.

The beak
of the bird in the jackfruit tree near the factory
points toward the hibiscus
by the gate.

Though the gate’s bars
the child, Aman, watches a girl throw
her yellow dupatta over her shoulder.
Although unable to describe it
the movement’s gracefulness makes him laugh.

Down the lane
the prostitute standing in her doorway
eats a mint leaf.
A friendly woman, she gives
her large eyes free of charge to the world
while 2 dogs walk past
side by side toward Pipeline Rd.

“Salaam Aleichem,” I say to Asma, fat
and recently divorced, as she
walks through the gate.

“Aleichem Salaam, Uncle,” she smiles
shyly back.

Allah observes all this from a distance, letting
the world evolve on its own.

Sundera and youngest grandchild

Flying to Kolhapur

The plane crawls like a bug
across a blue plateau.

It knows nothing about how
in the sky's white mountains
women and men aim
their AK-47s at God.

Like the racket of beating crow wings
as a car approaches and the birds scatter
from a fox corpse on the road,
angels' lips drum chaotically as the angels flee
the rotted flesh they've for so long
torn to pieces with gossip:

dark-skinned Ravenna who tried
to protect the south

Prometheus, the owner
long ago
of a bucket of burning coals stolen from heaven

big-hipped Eve who shook the earth as she stomped to a fro, humping
first one tree trunk, then another.

My spirit is in the white mountains, preparing
to enter a ravine.
Being in my late 60s, my daughter wants me to act my age.
But why?
I love the heights and my aim is still sharp.

The pilot announces our imminent landing.
A field of wind-bent tall grasses appears outside my window.
I step out of the plane, squinting
in the bright light.

photo: The foot as map of ts own journeys