Though I know the rustling of the newspaper cannot be heard
above the crumbling of a bombed out street, I can let myself hope
the soothing strains of violins and woodwinds drifting
across my garden might carry over lines drawn in the sand,
smooth them over, erase their every trace with peace.
On this bootless day in a garden where fuchsia
reigns over yellow cups and white bells of honeysuckle
my thoughts may turn to colors, bare feet in air-cooled grass,
the soothing swing of laundry on the line.
Still I can hope for a cease fire amid the
rubble of towns and lives. The luxury of an idle day.
A moments breath to remember the scent of roasting lamb,
the peppered sweetness of mango in curry.
The resonance of the Muezzin’s call to prayer – Azan,
the first call to a new day.