Turquoise On My Wrist

By John I. Blair

The turquoise on my wrist, Green as moss, brown As tree bark, cool, hard stone, Could call down dreads From Chang’an, Luxor, Nishapur, Tenochtitlan Where it graced tyrants’ crowns, Inlaid Pharaohs’ mortuary masks, Paved ghastly Aztec heads, But here sheds Overburden of the past, Embracing me today With thoughts alone Of she who gave it, She whose lips I kissed. ©2007 John I. Blair