Far away from the dusty trinkets
holiday crafts kept up year round, clusters
of dust with too many stories
to care about
My wind-up lantern shares a similarity
with that smoky house
whose light shines less often than fades
into almost darkness, crouching
as if surviving the blue hour were a competitive sport
and bursts of unrefined light
were timeouts, brief leg stretching.
The horizon’s intervention
A gray cloud dividing a sad green and a sadder blue,
hovers closer to that house than to where I am.
Easy to pretend I didn’t see the indecent emotion
and zip my flap tent door eyes to it.
But from where I am
I am engulfed by rich culture
the sounds of drums beating and voices united in singing syllables
This wordless inspiration, a thriving tradition’s heartbeat
thrumming pulse from the center of the earth,
Reaching me in my camp as I try to rest
with its resilience whispering in my ear
and reminding me of my own, quieter tick
also persisting on
usually as insignificant as
the clouds and colors in the distant sky.