Fajr finds a choir of morning birds serenading me.
Would that I could trade them for the velvet cooing of the mother dove
Who lives on my window ledge in Syria, four stories up.
“Ithikreeni Da’iman,” calls Damascus
“Remember me always”
And I do.
I long for the soft invitation of the athaan at fajr
Floating, beckoning on clear morning air.
Dhikr to begin the day
Or end the night
Mint leaves swirling in tiny tea glasses
Mena’ish baking in stone ovens
Sunlight streaming through holes in the roof of Hamedieh
Dust on shoes
I miss the Sham
I miss the bustle of life in the streets –
People walking, waving, welcoming
Carrying the stuff of life home in black plastic sacks.
I miss maghreb-time visits from aunts, cousins, and neighbors
Who drink cardamom-laced coffee and leave “Bakeer!”
I miss Friday morning fool and seran on grassy slopes.
If I close my eyes I can smell jasmine
Taste kanafeh
Hear the hakawati
My heart is there, in Muhajreen, shaded by Jebal Qassioun.
Isha finds a choir of insects serenading me.
Would that I could trade them for the distant call
Of the night’s last street vendor
“Duraat! Durrat bi’l oshara…”
Anse Najiyah Maxfield, Head of Publishing at Daybreak Press