All Work

It's the first rain since reaching India, the first rain in Dharamsala. Thunder cracks over McLeod Ganj and loudly roars and rumbles downhill to Dharamsala and across the Kangra Valley. The lightning is dramatic, a sharp, bright dorje cutting through the thickly clouded sky into the darkness of the night. The leaves rustle noisily in the wind like the clamor of a thousand small cymbals, and the rain, like a drummer, beats loudly on the tin and slate-tiled rooftops. The cool,

Simple, they call you, not quite in derision, nor in jealousy – perhaps in awe that you were created with so little and you do so much. My papered life is held together by you, you connect so many pieces of my existence. Double bent with your edges tucked into parallel lines you remain hunched, even in your youth, until we straighten you out long and thin into greater simplicity – a metallic line that digs and penetrates into the unreachable or bends into hooks or other