I die, until the subsequent morn.

Deeply thankful
for the curved edge
of countertops,
coffeemakers
than those stovetop
kettles, homeworks
done, keys in place.
I’m the morning
rush: mismatched socks,
chewing fast, tense,
skimming the news,
checking the watch,
anguished rocking,
forgotten lunch...
and then I’m gone.
Silence. Silence.
The sun star throws a ring of saffron light
that cradles every heart and calms each soul.
At night, people return and later rest.
 I die, until the subsequent morn.

The Only One

A mount of rice, many peaks of saffron,
the myriad skewers of ground lamb kebab
with basil and sumac—wrapped in sangak—
and barbequed tomatoes.  For dessert
black mulberries in sugar, in golab,
and then ruby seeds, freed of skin and pulp,
garnished with lemon and Persian hogweed.
Then comes sholezard, sohan, and halva.
A child's hand reaches for tahdig.
It's painted red.  She's almost six.
Her searching eyes see things blurry.
She's the only one there, the young
lady stands in silence and waits.
Outside the home in the heavy rain
an old argument has broken out,
someone's been shamed, another
disrespected, a young woman blames
her own kind heart, a heavyset man mumbles
something to God, looking at the moon,
a boy shouts something that seems to have wounded
his own nephew's pride.
An old woman groans, and there
A quiet man with a thick mustache
bends over and cries; and then blubbers.
Inside a lady is reaching
for tahdig, for food, for something.

Last Fall

Leaves of saffron and marigold
mingled with canary and rose,
some shattered, some frozen
within the mud and early snow.

The scent of chilly air and soil,
the sound of familiar voices
rising up at once to a roar,
the feel of gloved fingers below,
all fused becoming something new
that grew more and more distant,
but she enjoyed her last fall; every hue.