in the tenth century a moorish man
against the red hills of marrakesh
enters the garden
like a moon
bends down and takes her hand
kisses it slowly
never moving his eyes from hers
here on the ocean
in the fall
the shadows stretch long down the sidewalks
gold light
blur of umber and sienna your
chalk blue eyes
making a seafarer of me
in my boat of solitude
i rest my oars
and will know
when you lift yourself from sitting
and take my hand to your mouth.
No comments:
Post a Comment