Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Praise the weeds. The monarchs on milkweeds.
Praise your gut, with all its dreams for utopias.
Praise these eight ducklings trying to swim.
Praise how parrots eat a green chilly.
Praise the little girl who dances soon after birth.
Praise deserts, their endurance of windstorms.
Praise what does not kill you.
Praise the lovers. Their loving hand on your knee.
Praise a hatchling make its way to the ocean.
Praise the humming of bumblebees. Leaves.
Praise yourself, for how you remain blooming.

Praise the thistle. Even this eastern wind.
Praise the narrow lanes of Venice. The slant rain.

Praise the voice that gives life. Its knack to live.
Praise the color green. The semblances of flesh.
Praise northern villages. Their origami.
Praise the ear that can hear, the eye that can see.
Praise the will to go on living, cells, chords.

Praise how the relentless sun rises. Warm labor.
Praise the fog aligning on fields. A dimmed sun.
Praise magnolias. Miniature flowers on sidewalks.
Praise the time for sleep. A resurrection in rest.

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