It is a summer night alive with magic,
Watchful magnificent trees are standing upright.
The cricket’s chores sing from a distant bush,
In the dreamy dark patched with a yellow light.
A sense of wellbeing is spread in the air,
And a mysterious light that grows with growing dark.
A rich green drips from the tip of all branches,
Dissolving instantly in the warm flowing dark.
I sit on the porch sipping my cup of hot tea,
Flavored with orange blossoms from a garden in Shiraz.
The world touches my fingertips curled around the cup,
As I remember a tune played on the Turkish saz.
I remember Mother’s presence loving and forbidding at once,
Like her thorny rosebush that perfumed the morning air.
Her mints and basils green, playful, and fragrant,
Bathing in her attention as she stood there.
Old bazaars, starry skies, and cypress trees follow,
But, poetry flows in my plain, unexotic space.
Sitting on the porch I sip my cup of hot tea,
The summer magic pouring madly on my face.
The cricket’s chores sing at the top of their voice,
Lesser-known singers join in for a tune or two.
Watchful magnificent trees nod and listen,
As most creatures in the flowing dreamy dark do.
May 31, 2000
St. Louis