A poem by Prartho
Forgetting is a sacrament; wind its officiant.
The truest scriptures are written in the broken:
the cracked dinner plate, hinges wriggled loose,
splinters of afternoon light.
Life never stops tugging from the hook-end
of the pole. The Whole has her own hungers.
All of this is yours: storms brewing in your cup,
pratfalls of the backyard squirrel. The spiral galaxies
of palm fronds, the artichoke’s ever-golden mean.
Tea leaves can only be read when the cup has been emptied.
Close your eyes now—the winds have come;
the bamboo chimes are speaking in tongues.
This is the title poem from Prartho’s in-progress forthcoming collection – to be published in 2027.
Featured image credit to Colin + Meg via Unsplash+
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