Mirabai in the Mountains
/The moon was perched
like a golden hawk on the mango tree.
I knew the moon was like me–in heat, crazed and hunting.
So I climbed up there with that wild old gal thinking:
two drunk beauties like us will surely
snag Krishna with our eyes.
Reading the very wonderful sixteenth century Indian poet Mirabai, on a sunny September day in the Pyrenees
We unpeel those layers that have attached themselves over time, by finding word portals back to a freshness of thought and expression.