It’s neither the sun nor the waves,
neither mountains nor forests.
It’s not the boughs of our oak
in summer, when laden with leaves.
It’s neither the nightingale’s song
nor the speckle of shadows on ferns.
It’s not even the voice from your lips,
not the glimmer of gold in your hair
It’s only the attar that follows —
the wave in the wake of your presence.
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July 3, 2018