Winter in Himalayan Foothill

a poem by Jayati

In winter, cold
At the Himalayan foothills
Poor pick waste wood, twigs.
Light small fires, warm up bodies.
In and around village corners, fields
Sit together, chitchat, exchange tiding.
Affectionate atmosphere mingled smoke
Burnt leaves, woods, smell happy emotes.
Sprawl silhouette nectarine reminiscences.
Flow kindness aroma glow, fiery fragrance.
Wayside “Dhabas” serves curry, hot bread, tea.
Take a break. Highway truck drivers’ pause, feed.
As night, slip away, nebulous fog comes down to stay.
Cover field and town, trees, temple, mosque, church crown.
On horizon peach beige sun, wake up gently to tunes enchants.
New day begins prayer to God. Of previous nights, waste on roads
Collected from burnt leaves, woods, mound, is useful fertilizer formed.
Compulsions drive Natures’ poorest modest live with her frugal resources.
Education, farms, domesticities, children, women, men, struggle more no less.
Dissimilar comfort counterparts, in land prosperous, busy in other global parts.