Morning wind and the feel of your face close. A fragrance from China
through western Turkestan to here. Is there word of Shams?
I am dressed with friendship. Your voice says in my chest
the value of this moment: Partridge cry
on the mountainside, a human eye, what people say in praise of sunlight and the night sky, of Joseph’s face and Jesus’ healing breath, a walking cypress shadow, a field in spring, firelight.
Shams is all these, and a guide, the hand that never pulls away.