Thou Art That Poem by Susan Marie Watkins

In India
I would join the sacred cows wandering untethered
Garlands of flowers like ropes of yellow, orange & red
Draped around their necks

I would walk the deserted streets of Mohenjo-Daro in distant Sind
To hear the voices of long-departed sages
Whose spirits roam the abandoned city
& Whisper softly in the wind
Like the rustling leaves of Bodhgaya

I would drift along the reedy banks of the Ganges
In the algae-scented evening
Wearing a sari of poppy red &
A billowing orange veil of sheerest silk
I would be the center of the universe
Cloud-shrouded and mysterious
As the distant Himalayas

I would daub my forehead with sindoor
& Visit jungle-ensnared temples
To thrill beneath the swarming primal images
The teeming carvings dripping with concealed wisdom
Of things both sacred & profane

I would be an ancient, saffron-robed sadhu
One with the fecund smells that rise and settle with the breeze
While droning OM's roll over me and
Images, sacred and profane, draw me back
To the heavy, earthy smell of the cows
To their flower garlands
And to their deep rootedness in the now