Somedays, I go for solitary morning walks wrapped in my shawl.
The winter garden is faded with fog
and the wind among the branches
of the wayside trees is solemn and still.
I slip out of my kolhapuris
and walk barefoot on the dew-bathed grass.
Cold slowly starts to seep into me,
making me one with the wintry earth.
High on the trees, some birds begin to sing.
I take a deep breath and exhale,
the evidence of being alive comes out of my mouth
as a visual breath, like a cloud.