A sultan would hold the stone to the sun,
eight carats at least,
perfect
light playing in his eyes.
He would set the stone
in a pendant.
His hands would tremble
as he brushed aside your hair
and fastened the clasp
at the back of your neck.
I stand waiting
for the light to change,
cross the street under a sky
that is the kind of blue
that you see from a plane
far above the city.
It is sixty eight degrees
and there is a breeze
that moves just a wisp of hair across your face.
You wait for me at the cafe,
at a table on the sidewalk,
and from the end of the block you see me
and your smile lights my way.