Lying Low
Some days, I wake up realizing
that there is no gold on the screen;
diamonds do not fall out
nor opals show their opulence.
Nothing much is lost if
I go to another place for a while,
to the restful pine woods,
preferably in the pink of dawn.
There, I will lie low in the grass
amid a hundred humming voices,
no pings but the ping-pong
chitters of the olive sparrows,
so intoxicating I lose track of time.
The world can whirl for all I care; for now
the shadow play of sun and trees is my gold,
the dew-drop pebbles on the leaves are my silver.
Even if the sky rumbles, I will stay,
crouched under an impossibly big leaf
while the diamond drops of rain fall on me,
and if I’m lucky, I might just catch
the encore of a rainbow
spreading its opal radiance
on a bed of silver clouds
If there is a world more tactile,
and voluptuous than this,
I do not know where;
it’s surely not on my screen.