At the intersection of two paths
she placed rice and flowers
in a tiny palm-leaf boat.
Seeing me, she smiled,
put her hands together and bowed.
I returned the unknown gesture.
It was my first morning in Bali.
I‘d slipped out early
before the others woke.
Six years later, guests
at Ngurah’s father’s cremation,
we shared the preliminary feast.
Some tourists opened the gate.
Ngurah strode down the path. ‘Sorry,
this part is only for family.’
November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2010: 14
Prompt: a crossroads poem
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