divya's profile

It seems only a speck from here, H. thought as he peered up at his cabin. I occupy a speck. He watched as a thin trail of smoke from last night’s fire was struck by the dawning sun and as patches of sunlight nested in the crowns of the highest pines. H. stood like a sentinel on a rocky out-cropping that jutted out from the sloping mountain-side, looking out over the alpine canopy and up the path that trickled down in slanted tiers through forest columns and further up to his ram-shackle vist...

As a child, I loved to build drip-castles on the beach below the dunes. I would sit for hours setting wet sand droplets one on top of another, building up a sculpture of compromised structure and grace. Water and Patience are masters of form. Eventually I would look up to find myself enshrined in meticulous candle-wax towers and delicate arches only to have my breath, and my world with it, suddenly swept away by the indiscriminate icy hand of the changing tides. In my fickleness I abandon th...

The view from a boat in the middle of a lake; a sweeping horizon of shoreline. Thoughts ripple outward, touch white sand, linger a moment, and rebound; dull thud on a wooden hull. Clumps of dusty grape clouds topple over the treetops. The sudden rhythm of rustic forest snares rustled by raindrops. Vermilion Maple leaves; slide along silver rivulets, to hover over Heaven's hand-mirror. The Asian-orange sun squatting atop pine spires, stretches shadows that pierce reflections. The boat points s...

“It seems only a speck from here.” H. thought. “I occupy a speck.” He always had the same thought as he stood on the nearly barren rocky precipice halfway down the valley and gazed up at his minute ramshackle of a cabin. Indeed, it was only from here that he could look out from under the towering pines and gaze up through the channel of trees that marked the Southerly path down into the valley. A thin trail of smoke from last night’s fire was caught by the dawning sun and patches of sunlight ...

I walk a midnight curcuit through a neighborhood I don't belong in. I see the ghastly houses of strangers to whom, by day, I smile and chat with. A preacher. A banker. A chef. I had come out for air, for something real, but this is all manicured and veneered and so am I when I'm standing in it. It clings like sand to my bare-feet. It nestles in the deepest recesses where the attack of friction feels all too personal. As a child I loved to build drip-castles on the beach. I would sit for hours...