The Imam’s call brings me out of sleep.
Still wearing my djellebas
I walk through the gently billowing white curtains,
my feet falling softly on the already-warm mosaic floor.
A Berber woman sits in the courtyard, grinding nuts for Argan oil,
she smiles and bids me sit down and take her offering of bisarra,
scooped from the bubbling pot into a pottery bowl that fits in my palms as if I’d molded it.
I smell the incense on her skin, the smell of the spices in the market behind me intoxicates me.
Sensory overload, I am in heaven …
October, I am waiting.
©Cindy Taylor 2009