The South

 

The heat comes from the south

They say; and soaks into your bones.

Your lungs suck in the whispers

Of a camel’s footprint, your eyes

Blink away a nomad’s journey while

You sit in traffic, waiting.

 

The grains of sand migrate as well

Brought up by the wind, or stowed away

In deep blue robes that once were worn

But now are framed, or hung on walls

And tagged, or shared, or clicked on.

 

They move so softly; imperceptible

Like a tree’s growth over years

Like the greying hair of an old friend

Like the dying embers of love.