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UNGUENT FOR SORROW





Seeing yourself as a plaything to sorrow

For eating the specious

Fruit of unpleasure…

Out of a structured tree of

Built up motion

(Which swifter than melting snow flowing

as a waterfall to the Ganges in spring)

Speeds through the seasons –summer, fall

And winter

And, knocking at death sometimes, in almost

A pause; love wants

To rise in you, over and beyond

Your seldom tender mother; but this

Shy and tender, intermittent tender mien

Uses it up on its own need.

At the onset of registering pain

At the threshold of your pounding heart,

You feel the pain in the soles of your feet

Of your understanding, way back

When the pain first began, and

You chase those bodily tears.

Having chased them so long, your

Feet presses out of the ground

A healing herb from mother Shakti

To serve as an ungent for those sorrows.