Monday, July 02, 2007
Poem by N. M. Rai
Moment
I've moved away
from worldly relevance,
this inward turn
that slips me out
of the collective skin.
I speak to flowers
like a crazed saint of old.
There is no desert
to move to, no hermitage.
The moment is a monastery.
Mockingbirds wear
vestments of joy.
The touch of air on skin
is holy water.
Every sound is chant.
I make a joyful noise
that is often unheard.
It doesn't matter.
n.m.rai
