A brief poem from today’s walk.
A Woman in White
floats through the decayed
leaves and branches,
catching the eye of a weary wanderer.
Drawn to her glasslike tendrils,
her ghostly fingers wrapping around
the fallen tree,
the traveler leans down:
almost touching finger to filament.
But a whisper reaches the ear:
nothing truly dies in the forest;
it merely changes shape.
The light searches for her,
and for a moment, rot
looks holy.
An American in Kerala 