Morning Poetry

 

Morning Poetry

The early echoes

of temple chants,

beeping autos,

and street wallahs calling out their

“jasmine” and “green beans,”

as they roll by on squeaky wheels,

encourage the morning light

to gently but unapologetically

brush my brow.

 

Uncle’s prayers are

rhythmically calling,

the broom brush

is sweeping,

swooshing,

to carry away the dust

from yesterday.

 

Amma filters coffee

for her menfolk,

and it’s warm milk for Beti

and masala tea for me.

 

The sun is rising fast

so it won’t miss anything

that this sacred day

has to offer.

 

Julie Williams-Krishnan