House Made of Honey

Sunlight streams through the great windows

And the house made of honey,

With golden curtains melting

Against soft ivory walls

Lets the heavy African breeze creep through open archways

Carrying glinting specs of pollen and dry earth.

Khan - the one that steals the diapers

With the sweet anthill dirt spread across her lips,

In her clean white shirt

Folding clean white sheets

Sits on her stool in the corner.

Wispy blonde hair and warm skin

Lie nearby on the cool tile floor,

Dewy eyes towards the afternoon sky,

Waiting for the rolling purple clouds

To cast their shadow on my mother's Persian rug.

Tiny fingers reach out

Towards tree stumps rooted in the tile floor

And deep echoing laughter escapes Khan's lips

Revealing an empty tooth smile

Spreading across a leathery face.

But a rumble of thunder spreads faster

And the Persian rug darkens.

With a crack, the smile fades

And the breeze turns cool.

The afternoon storm takes hold again

And it's time for Khan to go.

Now slender fingers reach out

For the memories rooted in the tile floor.

Wispy hair turned dark and skin cool

Lying on clean white sheets,

Watching rolling purple clouds receed

Into the lonely horizon. 

Thin bands of sunlight grace an empty stool

And my Persian rug,

Igniting the golden curtains

Against glowing ivory walls.

The afternoon storm has gone

And the heavy African breeze will turn warm

Carrying an empty tooth smile

And a leathery face, through the great windows. 

With a soft rumble, a smile reappears

Curling like the twisted tree stumps

Rooted in my memory.

The house made of honey is sweet again.