Poetry

Moroccan Wind

There is something about the wind,

something about the way it makes a desert moan and surrender its sand

and yet abandons it for the soil and the sea

to shape them as roving eyes probe mountains on a face,

eyes upon eyes, they haunt the widening streams,

they penetrate the rivers of a gaze that could never swell

except into oceans of breath thrust over stone and skin

kissing the necks of valleys, the shoulders of towns,

they caress and refresh, they ravish and cloud

and stir as with the words I tried to unsay,

whimsical with dunes, they sculpt the edges of mountains,

pound the earth of flesh, forge thunder out of waves,

even their gentlest silence rocks the steady heart,

weaves fiery fingers through cascades of hair,

steals kisses from lips already engaged in a kiss…

and so, my darling, believe me when I say

that it was the wind, not I

that entered you but did not touch,

that found you, but slipped away