poem by Sreekanth Kopuri artwork, "The Spirit of God," by Dwayne Pagnotto
Suryalanka Beach, Bapatla
Do I ever remember a winter
without these fine tuned feathers,
the fluttering white cloud
that pillared the fishermen’s hope
the Wind’s un-transgressing decree?
If I could also be one!
but wonder why I must set an alarm in my mobile
for petty things when those delicate ones
do not, for even the bigger.
Lost in the boat, emptied of hope, an old fisherman,
who never killed a bird
waits on these seamless robes of light
to hint where to fish.
Are these the smaller words of that bigger One
within their tuned logistics, flying along
the set secret rhythms, only these breakers know?
To bird, now I know, is to soar off the prosaic drafts,
for the verse that migrates the meanings, off the known.
In our fields down the Way, stalks of life rise
from the guano that shines like white gold.
It’s time, I knew the Word, migration.