Moon at Half Past Noon

The deodars stand tall, cloaked in snow,
their bark still warm where sunlight glows.

A rhododendron blooms—bright red—
then fades as mist hangs overhead.

The pilgrim’s path, all dust and stone,
turns soft where wildflowers have grown.

The temple bell rings loud and wide,
then melts into the silent sky.

A langur in the oak tree’s shade leaps—
sunlight splashes where he played.

The whistling thrush sings one clear note,
then disappears into the haze.

The Kosi’s voice, so thin, so bright,
swells with the monsoon’s roaring might.

A charcoal fire warms cold hands,
then turns to ash—the wind commands.

The terraced fields, so green, so high,
sleep under stars and firefly light.

Nanda Devi, wrapped in cloud,
bares her white peaks—the moon bows down.

One breath of air, so wild, so free,
the heart forgets its weighty need.

The mountain writes in moss and dew:
“Come, lose yourself. I’ll find you.”