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.
Jenny Lewis 