And approaching the eve of the Great Pentecost,
The children of God left their particular tents and texts
For fields dappled by light and shadow;
For mish mish, each one a sacred sun;
For fruit trees so heavy and bent
That manna jumped from the Maker's sweet fingers
To their golden and grateful hands.
As it was for their many ancestors.
Take this fruit, said God, taste and see:
This land knows no settled borders,
And my heart, no armored checkpoints:
Only the fertility of trees loved and watered,
Only the abundance of fruit picked and shared
When the time is at hand, the season ripe,
And all peoples come to the garden again
To praise the One who is our Glorious Enough.
The same who fed our many ancestors.
And when the priests of piety and rage
Threaten us with forecasts of famine,
And fearsome foes coming to take it all away:
Let us simply take our leave of their demons
And meet one another here, among these trees,
Beneath their promise of summer fruit
And the kinds of sacrifice, sabbath, spirit
That make us whole, one people,
In this one land whose only name is
Abundance.
For Nasser the picker, for Abu George,
for Lorrait, for Diala, the makers of jam.
7 June 2025
At Wi'am, in Bethlehem, by the Wall
