Marrakech: and a tale of Summer

In the rush back to school with pencils and bookbags.
And meeting new teachers and booking new clients.
Under stacks of emails and endless To Do lists...

I've lost.......... the spirit of Summer.

Leaving room for impatience and tapping of feet.
And rolling of eyes and fits of despair
over things that are, well, small.

Have I learned nothing from Summer at all?

From the languid, the laughing, the lovely? 

Oh, no matter the season, no matter the weather,
Let Summer live on.

A matter of the mind and yes,
                                      of the heart.

 
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America: and a tale of Morocco

I was having one of those conversations that went something like this. 

Her:  So you live in Morocco.....Wow!

Me:  Yes!  Yes, I do.

Her:  That's very brave of you.

Me:  You think?  Well, it's different for sure.

Her:  No, I mean.....aren't you scared?

Me:  Of what?

Her:  You know, safety and that sort of thing.  It's very dangerous, from what I understand.

Me:  Uh, no.  It's really not particularly dangerous at all.  In fact there is relatively little violent crime.  It's much more dangerous here (in Boston), actually. 

Her:  (laughs) Oh come on....! 

Me:  You'd be surprised.   But it's true.

Her:  Well, I think you are very, very brave.  I could never live in a place like that -- I'd be terrified.  I want you to know that I'm going to pray for you.  I'm going to pray for you and your family.  For your safety.    

Me:  (Blinking) Umm..thanks.

Marrakech: and a tale of how it's not always easy

Oh it's not always easy.  No, it's not always easy. Especially not now.

I've had people betray me.
I've had colleagues disappoint me.
I've had friends who are leaving me.

I'm trying to remember that the sting will fade.  That new friends will be made.  That trust will be rebuilt, even if slowly.

I'm seen that flowers can be grown even from duct tape.  

Yes, beauty awaits me and is, indeed, here.  If only, if only...... I can see it.

**********

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Marrakech: and a tale of not being ready

I’m not ready.  No, I’m not ready for him to be so big. 
I’m not sure that I know how to do this. 

I’m not ready for his back talk. 
Or the way he says, Whatever, sometimes when I’m scolding him. 
I’m not ready for his jokes about smoking or his sleeping until noon.
For all those things I’ve seen – until now - only in movies.  

I’m not ready for his voice, so deep now. 
And I’m not ready for his young man's laugh. 
Or for his new walk, a kind of saunter with hands stuffed in his pockets. 

And I’m certainly not ready for the way he feels when I hold him in my arms. 
Like he fills up all the space.  Like he could run me over.
 And I couldn’t catch him, or save him, if I had to. 

But mostly, I’m not ready, not yet, to let him go.  

I can’t do this.  I'm not sure, I can do this. 
I don’t know how.   

(Please.  Please let him still see me– for just a while longer -- when I look in his eyes.)

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