The smoke passed
As an afterthought,
A cold day in Spring.
I wonder when last
He saw his garden…
If he’ll visit, with wings.
The smoke passed
As an afterthought,
A cold day in Spring.
I wonder when last
He saw his garden…
If he’ll visit, with wings.
“Our depth is a shallow
In the seas of being
The iris of existence.
Our ideas…
Warmth and cold.
Oil pastels…
Upon the pupil.”

But was I a bird
To pluck my plume
A nest.
But was I was a bird
For you.
But was I the olive
To lay my leaf
Abed.
But was I the olive
For you.
But was I the sun
To let my light
Blanket.
But was I the sun,
For you.
But, as the night,
It will seem,
I settle for you in dream.
What if a thought, perhaps a few,
In every snowflake that fell for you,
Where to chime in its own way?
They all would, though indifferently…
Theirs is not a frosty hymn.
I know they came from a warmer spring.
Past the mountains in unknown groves,
A sun implored them… and now lets go.
Before my eyes settle to skies
And aimless wishes fall to dreams
I gaze across the cotton miles
And milky way shimmering streams.
I’d like to think there are those who
Have known rest on a cloud or two…
And close the curtains with this thought
Pretending to be, of those aloft.
These letters are want the days
That I’ll remember few,
When we galloped fields of sage
And valleys of featherfew.
There you hummed a poets lines,
When of sage rose grape vines;
And threaded the night a gown
With lamp lights that littered town.
I couldn’t as a stranger pass
As you dressed a virgin land,
A language braided of the past
With a homeless heart and handless hand.
So your hills I braved
When you unearthed to me,
As we with night behaved,
Where you conceived a doorless key.
…a place between far and home.”
You are a temple for lost souls,
Who seek not scripture but rest.
For your doors are never closed
And spring runs childishly about.
And when the harsh winds of winter
Come bellowing from the North,
They are tempered in their shame,
Settling in their youth, beneath your eyes.
Life will not find your secret,
As she is blind to her self.
Though time will remember your refuge,
And forever find you, his rest.
Have I found my self in a child’s breath,
Lost amongst the olives branches and figs,
Or in the language of blossoms themselves
Mourning in her basket at dawn?
“Take me back, take me back” I call to her,
“I still do not know from where I came.”
The illusion of our choice is called away
In the broken road to the market;
Cobbled musings, dreams of an old mans coffee,
Sown by the roadside seamstresses of our past.
“Who are they, do they not see you?”
Her basket sways innocently forgotten.
And in the shouts of Ramallah’s market,
The mourning of the day is cultivated.
I am left to a stranger by her hands,
An in those hands I remember being taken away.
You are you and I am me,
Why would I
Not be trembling.
Let us love on balcony,
Let us sway
Gods canopy.
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