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.