Indian rain

It trickles up your
nostril,
it talks to your soul.
Ever experienced, it’s cream to the ever,
it’s like a battery of gamelan,
it’s like skeletons on a tin roof,
it’s like crying,
it’s like laughter.
Ever experienced, it’s
life in waterfall.
It’s lost love,
it’s found self,
it’s Indian rain.

Only in the lostness of
our totalself,
can the foundness be, because,
yes, it’s Indian monsoon,
English summer,
the end of the Wasted land,
and each time it freezes
in a column of white,
each time it unfreezes
and releases.

I do,
I have and
I think, and
I feel ...
and I am
and I seem
and I mean ...
something,
someone.
I give up,
I transpose,
I try, I improvise
objectless;
unverbal.
I and me,
thought and feeling,
space and time and
entropy,
dynamism, energy
and organism.

But I need you also ...
as in you is my Indian rain.
Through you, I learnt to be an island,
and wait now, fulfilled
and aware of my summer gone and
my winter to come,
in this brief shower,
this moment of silk and silver
falling

You do,
you have and
you think, and
you feel ...
and you are
and you seem
and you mean ...
something,
someone.
You give up,
you transpose,
you try, you improvise
objectless;
unverbal.
You and me,
thought and feeling,
space and time and
entropy,
dynamism, energy
and organism.

But you need me also ...
as in me is your Indian rain.
Through me, you learnt again to be an island,
and wait now, fulfilled
and aware of your summer gone
your winter to come,
in this brief shower,
this moment of silk and silver
falling down shell and skin
past hair and flower