I am sitting in the shade,
 Cool and wise,
 Of a ninety year old,
 Lebanese man,
 Like sitting under a cedar.
 His trunk is full of rings,
 Years and stories,
 In the folds of his face.
 His life is branching,
 Spanning history,
 Change and continuity,
 Independence, civil war.
 His eyes look down,
 On the everyday,
 On the present,
 With perspective,
 And shade.
 And most,
 His roots are deep,
 They tap into the past,
 And the spring of life.
 They nourish his conversation,
 They hold against the wild winds,
 They defy its tempests,
 Winds just rock his looks,
 Whisper in his words.
 Eagles circle above,
 And he stands upright,
 His life a canopy.
 So I sit in his shade,
 I no longer feel the sun,
 Of the everyday.
 I listen to the sound,
 Of wind in his words,
 Wisdom in his stories,
 Of sun dappling through,
 Filtered by his years.
 The sun’s fire replaced,
 With this white light,