Maker

this is the place where broken
things come to rest from their brokenness

they can’t get the taste of terracotta
out of their mouths

they know they came from mud,
only yesterday

they were a substance
to be walked on

now their bridles, palms, trunks,
wings hold unexplained shadows

the moon
eyes the world from their jagged holes

above them, peacocks roost in the trees –
Neem, Arjuna and the Banyan

under which Krishna sat
scooping butter

the bark’s twisted textures
are ropes going into the earth

resting before the spring burst
of growth, green after green

reaching for the sky with its
shattering light.

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