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?