Pots of Mussels

All the narrow streets
Looked the same to her
A brightly lit sky
Sun bleaching stone
Air dry as old letters

Looking up she noticed
Geometry and biology
Confluence of influences
From residents
And uninvited guests

Lattice work and glass
Fashioned from hexagons
Quadrilaterals, triangles
And tiny squares
Shapes rather than symbols


These hard-edged designs
Became beautiful in abundance
Rows and rows
Became like jewels
Dazzling in reflected light

These jeweled balconies
Were softened, she saw,
With lush tufts of greenery
And vines spilling over
Mingling with hanging laundry

The streets of this old city
Were not all the same, no,
She saw that now,
They held secrets and shouts,
Stigmas, sorrows, sins

As she approached a corner
Powerful scent of the ocean
Embraced her, and she
Was stirred and drawn
By salt, by flesh, by flower

There, a tiny cafe
On an ancient sidewalk
Six tightly placed tables
Serving only mussels
Steaming in wine and herbs

There, she stopped her wandering
The endless searching
For a bare table and rickety chair
Simple pot of fragrant shells
Young, red wine, crusts of bread

Thousands must have sat
At the same corner, of this old city,
To rest, and nourish,
On these tender hearts from the sea
Full of the juice of life