Rain-streaked bricks,
pepper-green trees,
and the sky —
thick as oatmeal, and gray as a city cat —
welcome a procession of
Nanas, walking slow,
humming descants,
dressed in wraps of blue —
turquoise, aquamarine, and harbor —
stirring up the storm.
Their hands set bells
and nazar boncuğu to work, spinning,
facing down anyone who dares
to try poisoning my well.
I struggle with thoughts of closeness,
and location,
as they take rest,
and sip their sweetened tea.
The morning grows old.
As the Nanas leave,
they lift the end of my shawl,
first to their lips, then into the wind.
Cool and fragrant with indigo
from shadows
of past summer suns,
the gauze is scattered with diamonds
mirroring the blue eyes
winking in the rain
under an ash-wood bough.
