The dancing wavetops poke their tongues Laughing to cry their sadness They swell to catch the painted sky They bend to summon the blackness of the ocean depths Always dancing, turning crisping fall and slide
Our parents stayed during the civil war. Don’t say we escaped, just that we too failed. We left Beirut on the verge of collapse & revolution. That clearing of hope, where would we be without it? Ask Ziad,
Beneath that tree is buried the lifecord. The energy that pulses through that trunk, up into those branches is within us too by a power of exchange, of life-sharing…