At Mahabalipuram

There

Just off the pavement

In the dust, where

The goats trotted by

On their way—

Like a dry, crinkled leaf

From a felled

Tree,

A crumpled letter,

Or a sheaf

Of papers, old things,

Tossed,

Unsent, she was there,

Her hand outheld

Her head

Enscarved, you gave her

Some change, in a moment,

So that you would feel better,

Instead

Of lost,

In the raven-filled air.

And she folded her hands into ‘namaste’

As a butterfly folds her wings.

Written October 17, 2010