Hands Like a Darjeeling Tea Picker’s

He passes by my house every day, the quiet old man,
Shrunken like raisin, bent like a crescent moon, and his
Hoary head steady as a round camera staring at all around.
There is something like the wind about him, this strange man—
Every day when he passes by unreal like a cloud’s shadow
A yellow leaf would slip off the lemon tree by my window,
And the leaf would follow the wind in the still serene day.

Today, looked at closely, the stranger familiar like the wind
Walking with us following the hearse to the crematorium,
Moved his nimble hands like a Darjeeling tea picker’s, with
The sack on his back sagging like it contained all moments
(While life is dripping faster out of me into the dust).
There is something about him like the reflection of the clouds
In the water—somewhere in the orb was an abyss of a face
With a bulbous eye staring at me like with eyes of my own.

 

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