He had to come back.

On a December afternoon
when the sun was more to west,
he landed on the most favorite place of his house,
the roof.

Just as he had imagined
the still winter air was abuzz with life.

Doves were pairing for a home
Green bee-eaters swooped on insects
Two herons kept following the grazing cow
Crows were busy with twigs and wires
High up beyond where paper kites could soar
Storks slow sunned their wings wet from the jhil
The cats warmed their furs before the cold night
The stray puppy gamboled with its mother.

Each piece had perfectly fitted the other
including the silently sleeping house.

He was tempted to walk down once
has she changed any little way?

He smiled to himself
then breezed away from the roof.

a potion maker,  
seeking the formulae
of the combination
of the
known and the none,
the wizard’s ideation
of the secret spark of
creation, the starter fire
of human destiny & desire

who needs gold,
when,
the power of birth,
the mystery of girth
the fluids of oils,
plus 57 varieties
of human blood,
in a precise tabulation
the sap of human cell
constructs, heated
gentle on a low flame,
do not forget, or regret
if the salt & pepper
of discernment is
overlooked, the sighs,
the quiet of boredom,
the leveling moments
when creation is initiated

and then
my heart can be
known to some,
even careful read
between the lines ~
the lines on my eyes,
the cross hatch upon
a forehead, the crinkles
where time and laughter
intersected and injected
the whites spaces between
these words

enough enigma…

never!

Two decades and a year
I come back to Darjeeling.

The blaring horns
have snuffed out
the pines' whispers,

and the glorious hilltops
retreat beyond
the many hilltop hotels.

Richmond hill is rich
with structures
that have made men richer
and traders have ensured
Nature here has no future.

The once magnificent Mall
has grown so small
you wonder if it's there
you laid your soul bare
to the woman of your love.

Darjeeling,
once where
she rode a wild horse
I would never come back.

And I will have no remorse.

In the chill of the mist
we walk on the almost deserted way.

I have little to say
being filled with her beside me
and she breathes the wind in
as our lonely world spins.

Sometimes we touch as we walk
prompting her to look at me
with a veiled smile across her face
when the walk seems sweeter than happiness.

The date trees are brimming with juice, she says
the pots will be filled in no time, I affirm,
some farther and we will be there.

Something akin to love
brews with the nectar.

LA burns, smoke blackens sky,
people flee and abandon cars,
90 and 100 mile an hour winds
feed and fan the flames, people
losing everything, even being
rich, or famous cannot save their
big homes and life's possessions.
Someplace in that expanding,
raging inferno my son, an Oregon
Fire Chief leads 300 Firefighters
and their 75 engines and water tenders
over 900 miles south into the fire storm.
Along with firefighters from other
states. Mutual support needed & rendered.

One of my son's firemen is his own son,
and my 21year old rookie grandson
with a little over one year on the job.
His seasoned father has fought many
battles with all kinds of fires, he set to
retire in May after 30 years on the job.
He has seen it all, with never a scratch
or a "singe", but my grandson has never
experienced anything of this magnitude,
being one of a 4-man truck crew battling
side by side in the belly of a raging beast.

All these 30 years I've worried for my son's
safety, now it starts anew, for our boy barely
a man that now walks in his father's shoes.

I will not sleep well until they are all
home safely. I grieve for the victims
of this awful tragedy.