Moroccan spices scent the air
That, growing moist with Spring,
Rolls along the asphalt walk
In this quiet hour when we wait–
The dogs and I–washing muddy feet
And looking for you to come.
You pull into our little driveway,
The door opens and billows of spice
Cast tendrils along the mud-lined walk,
To find you out,
To kiss your beard,
To draw you home.