Poetry

Micro Village

24 October 2018

dry chamomile grinds between my toes
passing the skin of a goat hung proud
air perfumed by fresh leeks
stirred in warm water by an ancestor’s hand

veiled by the oldest olive tree that shades me
from harsh sun beams
branches turn to veins connecting

fishermen’s hats stacked
deck of cards
coffee steam sweet with crumbs of sesame seed on the rim
sip slow
beads in hands flick their morning nod
to me

I sit on straw woven by the wisest hands of the village
thyme hung above the door frame tells me I’m home
while Grandmother lays lace on the table


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