Desert Evening

I stand in the quiet courtyard
where the palms move slowly in the air
as if remembering the wind.

The walls hold the day’s warmth.
Light rests on them
the way a hand rests on a shoulder.

Nothing is hurried here.

A lantern waits for evening.
A small pool gathers the sky
and gives it back again,
softly trembling.

Water is a miracle
in a place like this.

Beyond the walls the desert continues—
sand lifting and falling
in long patient lines.

It knows how to be still.

A fountain lifts its small voice
into the wide silence.
Not loud,
not asking to be heard,
only saying
that even here
life persists.

I walk beneath the arches
where shade gathers like a cool breath.
The stone feels alive in the fading light,
as if it has learned
from years of sun and wind
how to endure.

What the desert teaches
is simple.

Sit down.
Listen.

The palms are speaking
in their slow language of leaves.
The sky is widening.
Even the sand, if you watch long enough,
begins to shine.

And suddenly you remember
that peace is not something
you must chase.

It is already here—
in a chair at evening,
in a bowl of water,
in the quiet patience
of the earth.

Stand still long enough
and the world
will welcome you back.