The Sun Brings A Whisper

Torn paper mountains
and red brick red buildings
contemplate the eastern sky.
Look over there
see?
That's where the sun comes
from.
It comes from Marrakesh
baked in the red clay walls
of the swirling medina.
It tastes like mint tea.
It smells like argan and saffron.
Saffron becomes gold
when mortar
pestle
and water
lay down beside.
The sun rises from this home
and journeys toward
the mountains and brick
of this place.
On the way
it has picked up a passenger most fair
and true.
The softest whisper.
Now
the sensual transit of circulation
and
a bracelet of fingers
will court a supernova of pearls.
Sleep will come down
and the red brick red
returns every morning
awaiting the whisper
that turns saffron into gold.