Tears of Shiva shed into rivers. Cherry blossoms fell. The goddess of the confluence admired them for a time
before she released them. The tears scoured suffering. The petals added beauty. The river flows on.
I watch where streams of consciousness flow into one another and write what I see.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Look at the open window. Click to enlarge.
Friends on a bench in Kathmandu, Nepal
Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends. Virginia Woolf