Morning at the old village

Morning at the old village

I stop. The rustle of my steps ceases.
Barefoot under the arjun tree I savor
The morning silence, the cool darkness,
Like salve on skin before the summer day.

Above me, laden with its own presence,
The ancient arjun slowly stirs awake,
Dark blue against the faintly lightening sky
A patient observer of tedious ages.

The moment's magic draws my family's ghosts,
Chilled fingers touch my tingling spine,
Cool breath plays on my face and neck.
My father and his father and his father,

All together under the aged arjun.
I feel the common thread of our lives,
I share snatches of their feelings
Familiar enough and yet not my own.

Thus stilled awhile in my own front yard
I stand, and then cut short my walk.
Instead I go to see my daughters sleep,
In careless embrace, hair flowing, nosepins glinting.