the minutes wash over me
like the murky Ganges on the ghats
unfurling the long fabric of my life
to dip in the sacred waters
but it does not cleanse, it does not forgive.
upstream a child bathes while his mother
beats her hands against a rock in futility.
were I able to swim up towards them
and float down again, and travel down
an inlet that led to some peace.
were I able to step out and find
the meaning of yesterday, tomorrow
in the eyes of the brown cow, lowing.


About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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