You Heard from a side window, looked out, saw the alleyway.

You Saw from the top story, enjoyed the view, left anyway.

You witnessed a simple blade of grass, you wept and sat awhile.

Who are you, curious child?

The wanton mind of a generation, the admired flower, the tiny seedling drop of morning dew, you spoke, and the world went quiet, silent, the sweet surrender of peace surrounds and fills and makes anew.

A child in spirit, in age, ageless, in mind, the same as it ever was, in body, creeping towards old age. Insha’Allah. 

Where I was born they say “If the Lord is willing and the creek don’t rise.”

Perhaps sweeter and more meaningful is the mist of the other.

Now here, now gone.

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