the wind tickles my face
like the fraying strands of yarn
from an old afghan heirloom
distant songs wash over me
they still ring in my ears
like a peaceful muted siren
and the smell of orange zest
lingers fragrant and happy
foot soldiers come out of the light
covered in syrian dust
such strange things we reconcile
as we lay resting
on couches in the afternoon’s golden swoon
they follow
like shadows on the grass
as we pass from our doorways
to the great emptiness outdoors
walking and wondering
with footsteps in time
the cold smell of moisture in the air
and the green rust of sculpted metal
painting pictures in our canvassed memory
further now in cars
as the smells turn from warm apples to smoke
the safety of our homes long forgotten
wheels bouncing along the concrete plain
they bring us through doors
through differing thresholds
and in those rooms of foreign delight
where fire lifts the darkness
we seek warm embrace
to make sense of it all
in the arms of our lovers
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 12/6/12
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