Longing and Patience and a dialogue in definitions

Longing:

The centrifugal rise of your heart in your chest every time you come around to check for no new news.

The upreached compass arm
not willing to release
the fix'd foot

'round which it paces

Patience:

The even space between my breaths
that is the same as every other space

Longing:

The heart of the Earth for the Sun

Patience:

The constant speed with which it pursues - rotating so that each face in turn may have a glimpse

The tide awaits the moon.

Longing:

The ocean swell which keeps its face upturned

Following even onto land
until the strength

(though not the will)

is broken by the rocks

Patience?

The Sun sees his reflection in the Moon

which the Moon shares with Earth in his apparent absence

The same day as lights the other side of Earth
is painted gently on our own night sky

The buildings are not interested - their light clamors too loud

But mountains, trees, and old stones still await the news

and someday the buildings will die down.

كلام معك ~ انا بحب مصر

Sometimes I'm not sure if it's you
or if it's the dry sun I feel the heat of through your words.  The dust, the carts,
donkeys on strong, tiny ankles
the hot dust quenched by thick and cool and maybe sour orange mango juice -

the bakeries with their tiny breads - ~ the yellow cardstock rectangle from Ramses Station, the heavy, knotted rope slamming courtyard playground floor,
the light gleaming off of Leonardo's guitar

the cool dark of that tomb among the pyramids, the giant blocks, the men with camels and cameras,

the sunset on the Nile and football...

I wonder if it's you, or this flap of silver-white and teal

wings of the bird of time that I want so much to glimpse again
and to tell me
flitting above desert streams
that it's ok

to forget

Though I know

We all must lift each other up by sharing what we know

At any rate,
if you do come,
I'll find mint for tea

and ask you how many spoonfulls of sugar?  two? or three?

freewriting -

Is writing time always going to be

10 - 11 - 12 - too late?

Will it always wait for that
liminal state
between day and
delayed desire for morning?

dawn
the farthest from my eyes
my tired mind and I
gaze into darkened pooling of the
night gathering
therin we glimpse reflection
of the day
and paint with ink.

painted in ink -
an ink that comes from between the stars

and
above the lands where day is clearest

spreads the whole sun across the sky

The lunar glow is not from one radiant source

It reminds us to share
there is no glare in her light

We breathe with borrowed breath
our hands
on loan from ashes

Eyes gently receiving the light that
from one source
funds us only after first touching others

The moon reminds us of this by her example

/remember you are not the true source/

And her beauty is not diminished
And in the gathered-cloak night sky
I see the kaleidoscopic gleam
still painted with the broad-brush silver river of their time snaked 'cross the sky
of a billion distant

ancient days

soon to be eclipsed by our own

When Helios closes the door of day behind him

He opens the Sky to the hall of his brothers'

The moon
unblinded by her own
reflects it all
a luminescent cool silk sheet

upon the face of Earth