And the World Turns Watercolor-Soft
The morning wakes in mango gold, a slow unfolding, bright and bold,
before the first fistful of color flies and opens up the April skies.
Then someone laughs — and it begins. Pink clouds erupt from copper
tins, the air turns silk, the street turns strange, the ordinary
starts to change.
A grandmother in a white sari stands with roses blooming on her hands.
She did not plan to be this bright, but joy makes trespassers of us
tonight.
The children run like broken light, half-green, half-violet, burning
white, their feet percussion on the ground, their voices one enormous
sound.
Old quarrels soften, edges blur, a neighbor becomes what neighbors
were before the years grew walls and weight — now indigo dissolves the
gate.
Even the dogs are lightly blessed, with one gold streak across each
chest, even the pigeons, rising loose, trail saffron feathers,
turmeric dust.
And the world turns watercolor-soft, the boundaries lifted, colors
loft across the sky like prayers released, like something long-held,
now decreased.
We are the canvas. We are the brush. We are the wild, unguarded rush
of being human, unafraid — look how beautiful the mess we’ve made.
