Ahmadullah’s Toes

The only tree in the garden of the camp is auditory –

full of birds, and hot smelling, like geraniums in July.

It holds my shadow in late afternoon, where I sit

beneath its latticework of branches.

I watch the ants criss-cross the bricks at my feet and envy

their progress – inherent, like pink hitting sky, foretelling night.

Their march of leaves goes on. Unlike us,

their reconstruction, unopposed.

If I stay here long enough the old Afghan gardener smiles

and brings me grapes.

I wonder – what does he think I miss the most?

His youngest boy walks by with a basket of bread,

bare feet scuffing in the sand and it’s this –

the togetherness of his little toes,

the wholeness of his head and little wrist band,

his heels rough as salt

that cracks me like a watch face.