Having found jasmine blossoms entangled
in my braid,
I am wont to worship the water that feeds them
as intravenously as the hope infused
about matters of spring and pilgrims.
Morning finds merchants weaving
garlands of gifts, to
Mary or the Buddha or Vishnu,
all having developed a fond affection for fragrance,
In the cracks of grime in the ground,
In the pungent air of India and others,
there is worship in the workings
sleepily tucked in the blooms and bustle.