A poem by Prartho – photographs by Paritosh.
You don’t need to teach a child to fall in love
with the wild patch at the end of the road—heady
with frog bleep and creek burble, the smell
of earth worms and decaying moss.
Every child knows that pussy willows
and spring mud are calls to prayer.
Under the yellow-green breeze-rippled
dome everything wriggles forth
to be baptized: Chipmunk and salamander.
Robin, tadpole, water skater, bee.
The Earth doesn’t need to be taught
to love her child; she’ll pull out the stops
for that joy-smudged face—scribble
on river rocks and tumble them downstream,
call on the sun’s rays to cakewalk
on water. She’ll dangle vines
for her children to grab hold
over the brook as it rages with rain.
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