It’s not the leaves that move. Nor is it the Banyan tree. The mind moves both of them,as if they were constructed of thoughts from the river’s basement,Rising from the cracks,where my grandfather usedto lay his line, like the idea of wind and Banyan trees- not unlike the ideaof crawfish and trout, everything struckwith the face of awe, a holy agreement.that we can all be residents of a sunlit world.
Tea House: Interviews, Commentary, Reviews, Poetry & Prose