The almond trees on the slopes in Palestine
are flowering pink after a long winter rest
I saw them for one fleeting afternoon, basking in
the embrace of a dear friend
No longer I am in the land of flowering almond trees,
the place I imagine does not exist
shops are shuttered, people hostile,
the sun warms an empty pavement
To grasp is to dwell in sorrow's pull,
its pools promising happiness, if only, if only.
Must I long for this imagined life, this blooming of
almond trees on a hillside now abandoned?
This expanse of life already includes
the Palestine spring – and now there is
rainbow and still water and redwood,
only possible because not-Palestine is
Diversity sings to me the lullaby of wonder
showing me that the balance of things
is the way of this human form
is the way of nature
So the stone in Jerusalem grows hot
almond trees will shed their blossoms and
bear sustenance for those willing to step outside
and I too will change.
