One fine afternoon I sat outside
with such a capacity for joy
and like a little child I believed
I was controlling the movement of the clouds
with my brow.
Then from out of nowhere
a flash of blinding light
hit my eyes for a second
and I asked —
Is this the beckoning of the beloved?
Or a reflection of some silverware
Hanging outside a shop in Marrakesh
On our journey to the city of love
we crossed mountain passes
and dangled on edges and cliffs
and the open road welcomed us
unending dust and mirages of heat.
I watered a roadside cactus
with salty fountains shooting from my groin
out behind a rugged boulder
was a colourful serpent flaunting its forked tongue.
In the rolling plains
with different shades of green
were fields of gilded wheat and corn
and other hard knock crops.
The expanse grasslands
looked like a playground of angels
and every single tree was beautiful
their drooping branches
kept the river in a state of constant seduction.
When we reached the city of love
the outstretched arms of a long lost friend
reached out to us
for a feast in the house of David
and here is a soft pillow and white sheets
to rest your weary head.
was there ever a shortage of miracles?