Beautiful Are The People Of India: Poem 2 Poem by Romella Kitchens

If one has family, they have that which is
a part of the significant. If the family it is as the
broken glass, not adequate to quench the thirst of
life...Pick up the shards and begin greatfully, hopefully again.

It is India.
A day of rest, a family convenes
at the home of one of them with
a heart of abundant love,
who has more, to enjoy
his indoor pool.

They are welcomed with
much food and laughter.
The scent of curry intoxicating.

The children are brown
and beautiful. Their eyes smile
good parenting.

The women comb out cascading
hair after plunging into the heated
water and rejoicing in it.

Lean men swim in Dhotis and wade
in them and smile, their souls and
their skins glistening, their conversations
a communication of the not just words,
but understanding on the plane of the soul.

Old men shut their eyes as the rest on
chaises lounges, plastic and humble but
comfortable, their proud white hair drying
as they hold the hand of their wife her
hair as white as the snows of heaven and
wonderous, beside them in an adjoining
chaise.

The children are encouraged to swim
and, the thanks for the invitation to have
such aqua blue water and sweet pleasure
are multitudinous.

Girls and women talk with intelligence about
topics from the news, books, their jobs and
more their affection for each other long lived.

A woman lays at poolside having placed a flower
in her hair and looks like a Matisse painting from
a tropical clime.

Toddlers are encouraged to swim and do feeling safe in the experienced guiding arms of their parents, the tutelage warm, kind.

'There is no lost time in loving. There is a correctness to loving beyond living.'

Young boys spend time with their fathers joyously learning things only the wise need to say, want to
say.

Then, the time comes.
The swimming party is over.
All is gathered up and families leave.
But, not before hugging, kissing, burnished skin so warm and real and soft, touching of hands to faces because all aspects have their importance.

What is the first or the middle, sometimes is also fruitful change or the end.

Waving through windshields.
Then, the cars drive away.
The man stands in his doorway with his wife watching them go, his heart feeling lingering closeness, warmth yet longing
as for the sweetest wine, the sweetest memory.