Having slid back
barefoot on cold slabs of granite
pacing the pradaksinā passage,
resonances from the outer walls
overwhelm rhythmic drops
from the dhārā pot,
splashing on the black monolith
stirring the bed of marigolds
in the yoni.

Chiming the bell in his hand
the pujari attenuates
summoning the butterfly —
in iridescent green and indigo
now perched
on the bolt of the open door
at this threshold.

Having searched
my head too finds these steps.

The overflowing pot
with the milk and turmeric slurry,
fills the passage,
damping resonances
burden floats,
borne by tiny orange petals —

The butterfly’s fluttering wings
reflect morning light
from the outer window
onto this stream,
where these tiny tesserae
slipstream the swirl of incense
in my hollows.