Samsara

Burnt coffee on sun burnt Indian mornings

The smell of the two

Almost the same

Strong and sooty

Made by the same black coals

The same fires

These early Indian mornings

Dawn the same grey as New England skies

With the same translucent skies

Growing into blue

But the birds call out

Unfamiliar songs

Repeated and shrill - almost desperate

This place, desperate

Walking in Darjeeling

A stranger turned to me

Standing, watching, an orange robed woman roasting corn over a pile of charcoal and dirt

“Sometimes,” he said, pointing to the woman,

“They cook corn over used crematorium coals”

Indian mornings rise as a continuation of the night before

The inevitable cycle forward

Circle, onwards and onto itself

Over its own people

Own suffering

Own surrender

And sudden

Burst of color