Foraging

I dream again about the wild
where branches thick with leaves
lend shade to the ground below
and gentle zephyr casually blow
 
I see the fresh young leaves
on plants I had plucked before
putting them in reed baskets
and heading for home to cook lunch
 
the babbling brooks
where we caught small fishes
and freshwater shrimps
to fry together on a hot wok
 
I hear again the calls of squirrels
chattering noisily over ripe fruits
monkeys joining in to call
soon leaving the trees sadly bare
 
this morning I woke up
in a sterile hotel room
cold and impersonal  
and recalled my childhood

like a communion wafer turn bitter
or a balancing act on a tight rope
past memories lost in racing with rats  
streak across the room laughing  
 
sometimes.