Ports of Call

Fresh as first light, that dawn unseen
before, it will never repeat —
that day I stood and listened for
the known among the alien

tongues, those merchant ships of language
fresh. At first, light — the dawn unseen —
then song itself unwound, graceful
like a lark tracing alphabets,

each arabesque and loop fading
as the muezzin called out his prayer
fresh as first light, the dawn. Unseen
behind shuttered wall, veiled windows

broke open, spilling gold, blossoms
of exotic names I stumbled 
over, while far west, the moon rose
fresh, as first. Light, the dawn — unseen.