They know what joy costs, how knives hollow wood to this resonant shell. Sojourners, they've paid the fare. They want musicians' hands flashing like larks, notes rippling in clear light strains, roads opening toward the sea. In Lebanon, spring comes early, almond trees whitening to mist in the sea's soft breath. Buds break, tongue to green flame.
Travelers rising early to check the weather find the hills taken by fire.
Her touch was like jasmine flowering at night, secret life slow through the tough brown vine. Bahiyeh loved apricots, sun s fruit, rivulets sweet down her storied skin. The pits she spat in her palm were a promise, not to be wasted. Cracked, you could eat the firm white heart within. Planted, seed pledged to grow.