Zephira

She pervades the place,
becomes the most important
thing, like the sound of water
in the desert, and even
stubborn animals would
easily take to their knees
before her.

She is a pleasure,
one that must not be kept
secret, but told in a furtive
voice to the next person,
spreading like rumors
in the market district,
spreading like sand
that comes in under the
space beneath the door
when the simmoom
rages and the camels
make their lament
by the side of the caravansary.

She is a dream, like the
smell of the ocean far
inland, or the sight of
a sea bird perched atop
the palm tree on the most
distant of all oases, like
the dimmer stars behind
the bright and obvious
points of light, only seen
when all the world is still
and quiet, and there is no
candle to light another's
face.

She pervades this place,
or perhaps, she only pervades
me, and this dream, this fever
of her is only bright and sparking
within the walls of this
one mind, only the diamonds
which glisten within this
clenched fist, held skyward
at the verge of the waters
where the violence of the
desert is thwarted.