and then our exile

fa bahru judika / yarwiy kulla man yaridu
the sea of Your generosity quenches all who seek

There is a sharp edge to the air here, winter consolidates. Comfortable in Damascus, far more than I’ve ever been in Edmonton.

Each year the dead grow less dead, and nudge
Close to the surface of all things.
They start to remember the silence that brought them there.
...
Ahead of us, through the dark, the dead
Are beating their drums and stirring the yellow leaves. (CWright)

Bought pomegranates, they are the fruit of heaven. What grace, to let us taste its shadow even wallowing, ugly morass.

But six months eighteen days more.

Last night i dreamt of snow.