Under the Teaks


Calm sky sweat drops from leaf to leaf

in the cat breath air under the teak trees,


on top of tall spikes of green rice
aerial mice play, tiny birds, distant sounds of grace in the fragrant fields

once exhaled the chrism never leaves the temple
though the stink of Bangkok and the coconut stench
of tourists makes for a foetid street

but come under the teak trees

come to where the green unguent light  drafts a proposal of sounds

spilling drop by drop from great round leaves

floating seried atop the canopy

like limey pulpits

like a call for those who discern the word of the forest

for those who walk the trail of tears

for those whose feet are soft on primeval earth

whose breath drives the fuse

of hair and bone, blood and teeth

the sinewy lung that breathes
the motes of time

in this arbor, this web, this life.

Chiang Mai



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