Poetry at Sangam



MORNING RITUAL by Meena Alexander

I sit in a patch of shade cast by a pipal tree.
Each morning I read a few lines from The Narrow Road to the Deep North.

Where did Basho go?
He entered a cloud, and came out the other side:

Everything is broken and numinous.
Tiled roofs, outcrops of stone, flesh torn from molluscs.

Far away, a flottila of boats. A child sucking stones.
There is a forked path to this moment.

Trees have no elsewhere.
Leaves very green.