Friendship
I’ve had many friendships in this life, but never imagined one of the most profound ties would come from a culture long portrayed as distant from my own. It’s remarkable how deeply propaganda—both political and spiritual—can shape our fears and close our hearts.
This friendship has quietly transformed me. It’s given me a reservoir of symbolism, emotion, and lived experience to draw from. I know, without doubt, this connection was meant to find me.
These poems are a tribute to that culture’s New Year—a celebration I once saw only in images, yet somehow felt deeply in my soul. I will never forget the beauty I witnessed, nor the quiet love that marked it. I am changed.
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In the Shadow of Cypress and Stone
(For A.N.)
0325.2025
Somewhere in Persia’s quiet hills,
the earth begins to wake—
brushed with thyme and honeyed light,
stone warming under the weight
of memory and feet.
He walks among the almond trees,
their blossoms like shy confessions
to the sky.
His breath folds into the wind,
into the hush that gathers
between pine and prayer.
The new year rises not just
from the Haft-Seen’s sacred table,
but from the stubborn green
pushing through cold soil,
from rivers swollen
with what winter could not keep.
The mountains do not speak—
they listen.
They cradle the songs
of women long vanished,
and the dust of grandfathers
settling into root.
If I were there,
I’d carry silence like a lantern,
let the cypress trees
translate what I cannot say.
And maybe then he’d sense it—
not just the path beneath his feet,
but someone walking just behind,
quiet as breath,
and just as full of love.
m.c.f.
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The Gifts
(For A.N. & His Family)
0325.2025
And I,
gatherer of signs,
read his omissions like scripture—
do not need to be named
to be known.
I do not need to be touched
to feel him unfolding
in the space between the truth
and the one he’s not ready to speak.
He gave me his mother’s quiet gaze,
his father’s timeworn pride,
his nieces hands—
Glass-colored, aching with vision.
He gave me laughter in his smile,
and the dust of old men
gathered like roots in the center of the room.
He sent me the new season—
the soft riot of a New Year offerings—
pomegranate seeds and sweet wine.
The table was set with silence and grace,
amber glasses circling like moons,
around the weight of his lineage.
And he gave me himself,
not in words,
but in the shape of what he left untouched.
m.c.f.
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✵ Outside, the cypress trees swayed in slow confession, offering quiet comfort in place of questions.
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✦ AI-generated conceptual artwork
✦ Created to accompany poetry
✦ Not for commercial use or sale
