Wet things smell stronger.
The blossom, pressed
in a book, has been done
to death.

When I was born, you waited.
My head heavy,

heavy with the light
of late afternoon.
The grasses in the field

have toppled. There’s
no accounting for happiness.
A wound is sometimes
buried, dispossessed,

like gravel on the bend.

Shloka Shankar, 2019

Remixed works:

Lines from poems by Jane Kenyon