January morning

Petersons woke up this early,
and Rays, Sens, Poddars. Everyone
promenades down the strand, appears
through the haze and returns ahead.

How are you, we ask, Hey, and
retort, How are you? Hey! We smile.

Something my lungs cannot hold well
winds and unwinds in the airstreams,
and yet I feel fine. Petersons,
three of them, say, You look the same.

So do you, I say. So does all,
the offspring of mist, waning,
leaving some whispered greetings to and fro.

* KuSHaL PoddaR


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