Black Wooden Button

Should I follow the example of explorers before me? Shall I set my sights eastwards, over the green mountains, lush fields, narrow pockmarked roads, and across treacherous border crossings? I am tempted to follow the ways of Dame Freya Stark and travel onwards. This is the nature of my musings as I watch the moon and clouds. A midnight breeze brings the scent of cooking, goats, and the salty ocean. I feel like a nomad, wandering without a home. Pauline doesn’t agree, and nuzzles my elbow with affection. I fasten the black carved wood buttons on my frayed and worn black sweater. It has a dusky bonfire smell, and comforts me. Sugar and poetry at midnight is a sure fire cure for homesickness, so I take a large bite of my chocolate cake with fleur de sel ganache and open a tattered, yellow leather-covered book.
“All the way in the dark,
A somber breeze was flowing in the air,
And lonely crickets were yearning:
“Hey moon, generous moon…”
All the way in the dark,
A row of the trees with their full of desire sighs,
Like devotees of mysterious gods
Were constantly pleading:
“Hey moon, generous moon…”
(By Forough Farrokhzad, 1935 – 1967)

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