For a moment I got it, didn’t I,
dirt and dry grass, orange
whirr of a startled locust,
cloud-mottled mountains, song
I overheard and loved and knew
I would forget?
Krishna’s careful philosophy
just so much wind in his hair,
until Krishna came as God to him.
Then he begged God to be Krishna again.
Then they turned, and rode into battle as men.
Even a glimpse is too much, quickly
we turn back. But we remember
waiting, wondering what to ask.
Mountains in the middle distance.
Prairie dust. At each step,
crunch of spiny grasses underfoot.