I am off to the airport in two hours and took a walk with my daughter earlier along the Hudson. I was holding her small grown-up girl, 25 year-old hand, but seeing her many ages and sweetness sewn inside her. But those hands are always so chilled, always so small.
It is intensely sunny today and again chilly. The spring lunacy continues with flowers up and open, then sweltered and now a crispness usually relegated to fall. Again to stress how I love the abject severe flip from cool, to hot, to grey to pouring rain and then blaring sun. It is a season reflecting my own extremes.
And so since the weather is crazy I can wait in calmness. I await the taxi and an impromptu visit from my goddaughters just returned themselves from an Easter trip to their Scottish homeland. I am packed, yes thanks to all who have asked and hounded me and told me to bring hand sanitizer and extra everything and sent me Indian friends to call and visit. Soon it will be me and other voyagers and Air India and hours of waiting, reading and oh I hope sleeping and learning poems.
Will it count to march the aisles memorizing poems? I hope so. I found a beautiful Indian poem and I will begin to carefully store it in my memory as we fly clear across the world. I have copies of the first three poems, in theory not to be lost to the heat and wildness of India but kept to drag out when John Donne might be of use, or a NYC winter sound-scape might cool me.
The jewel of Stars by Subramania Bharati, 1900
Moonlight, the stars and the wind,
By placing them in front
And drinking the honey thereof-
A poetic frenzy seizes us;
That atomic thing called Mind-
We shall let it roam free.
Should one wonder at the bee that sings
While imbedded in a tasty fruit?
Oh, Mind! Go hence to join
The jewel of stars.