Khechepuri Lake

Dew gathers in a row, resting
In a beaded necklace
Along my hair that I glance
As I write poetry.
Like a spiderweb in the dawn
The threads woven into a net
Sit silently waiting
For words to wander into their clutches
A flute's song prances across the valley of fog
To dance with the cow's low and the children's musical calls
In the dry lakes of my ears
The whiteness of cloud blinds
As it sharpens the earsight
Its swollen moisture collecting
Into the droplets that begin to fall
In a rhythmic harmony that drowns the noises of Khechpuri valley
Demanding all sensory attention
Except
That I can still see the remains
Of spiderwork strung across the porch,
Which reminds me of those dew drops
Nestled in sheltered safety,
Clinging fast
To strands of black hair.