from storm
or other act of God
the mesquite has fallen
roots ripped out of hiding
its large pipes and pullies
still operate as the sun reaches
down and lends a hand
reminds me of the Indian man
I met minus arms and legs
waddling around Mumbai
on deeply calloused stubs
begging without complaint or pity
and the look on his face -
the10-rupee smile he gave
so much larger
that resolve to live stops me
quiets me humbles me
notice that ugliness can become
beautiful when we empty
the darkness from our eyes
and let a new light open them
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