Seasons

The following poems are written about the children and life in Shishya Community

Dry leaves are falling from teak trees,

Laying a carpet on dirt paths for feet to tread upon.

Red-headed green parrots sweep across the fresh green wisps of new wheat

Stealing sprouts and stray seed.

One happy dog bounces back and forth to the call of his master who throws a ball

While a heard of little bare feet all run.

Water flows warm into an aqua blue swimming pool while a cold wind

Blows down from the Himalayas who threaten to cap themselves in snow.

The orchard is bare, except for the immli, hard and sour,

Picked up from the ground and kept in the pockets of roaming little boys.

They gnaw on it happily as though it were sugar cane.

Sounds of work, the cough of an engine,

The constant crisp falling of leaves to the ground

Reminding all that Christmas has past and the new year begins.

Fans on the ceiling swirl morning and night,

Still the heat does not leave, like fire ignites.

Instead of relief sweat continues to pour,

Children flee to the shade, or the pool, or the floor.

Yet there is fun in the sun and shade,

For everyone sweats, in that all are the same.

Cool water flows up from the deep fountain below

A tube-well refreshes the thirsty making life grow.

As though it were needed, as though God does see it,

He washes the dirt and the grime away,

Anointing and baptizing all of his children in the rain.

All of His children, all of India God has claimed.

Children run out ot be drenched in the flood of drops

Which pour from heaven on every rooftop.

A joyous cry and even a dance, celebration is heard across the land.

The dry ground seeping up each drop

turning dust into mud or a pond of sludge.

And dry places turn green and lush,

Dry riverbeds run wild with raging torrents and floods.

A thirsty land is replenshed to thrive,

The people still thirsty for the God of Life.