A slow draft

You come not as the autumn leaves on the birch
Gently swirling down into forgotten piles
But as the spring break
Welcoming in its soft harshness.

You appear not like the orange sun on those
Early summer mornings beset with tepid air
But as the dewdrops on the green
Breaking the light into a multitude of hues, except Indigo.

You smell not like the quenched earth on
A drenched monsoon afternoon
But like a bouquet of carnations handwoven
By seers atop the lofty plains.

You radiate not like the strobe lights
Furtively illuminating our deeds
But like the face of the clay idol
Feverishly worshipped by pagans and atheists alike.

You stand alone
Not like me.
But like the sky
Blue, pristine and unharried.

You I call my own
Not like the pages of the novella I flip
But like the beat that
Resounds inside me.


This is for my agnostic friend, and the influence he's left on me.