Meditation Soup

On the wood of the table 
the furry bisque of your 
orange cat thickens. We 
have no interest in 
the falling leaves or 
in the food still in the basket.

The world is our arguments.

The breeze makes the trees
a group of chanting monks.
They have their scheduled good
to do before the Sun sets.

We sit nowhere near 
any mountain nor an ocean,
and yet the shadows
on our skin smells of fish, 
ozone, and frost.

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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

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