I touch Egypt when I touch sand,
and Egypt slips through my hand.
The water tickles my toes on the shore.
Have I held this drop of water before,
on the other side of this circling sphere?
How far has it travelled to meet me here?
The setting sun paints the Catalan sky,
and it feels familiar but I can’t tell why.
Someone on this cruise is from Austin.
Don’t know how I find Texans so often,
but it’s a comforting thing to know:
my hometown follows wherever I go.
They’re selling crepes in a Barcelona bakery,
reminds me of our lunch in the French bakery,
when we spent spring break in Paris,
and on the mountain there’s a Ferris;
it reminds me of the Christmas markets
in Germany where we stuffed our pockets
looking for somewhere to buy churros.
I had some in the land of the burros
and spilled chocolate on my sundress –
even in Spain I always make a mess.
The bakers laughing over nothing,
I’d like to think they’re lovers or something.
Strange, isn’t it, how smiles surpass speech,
how the wind in my hair on the beach
feels the same as it did in the States,
like these ancient Roman gates
remaining after all these years,
watching us shed each other’s tears.
We battle brothers but in the long-run,
we’re all dancing around the same sun,
connected by sunsets and sand
and waters that stretch between land
like string knotted around our hearts,
oblivious to where “here” ends or starts.