Impossible Grace

Monday, January 16, 2012


At Herod’s gate
I heap flowers in a crate

Poppies, moist lilies—
It’s dusk, I wait.


Wild iris—
The color of your eyes before you were born

That hard winter
And your mother brought you to Damascus gate.


My desire silent as a cloud,
It floats through New gate

Over the fists
Of the beardless boy-soldiers.


You stopped for me at Lion’s gate,
Feet wet with dew

From the torn flagstones
Of Jerusalem.


Love, I was forced to approach you
Through Dung gate

My hands the color
Of the broken houses of Silwan.


At Zion’s  gate I knelt and wept.
An old man, half lame—

He kept house in Raimon’s café,
Led  me to the fountain.


At Golden gate
Where rooftops ring with music

I glimpse your face.
You have a coat of many colors—impossible grace.

Sunday, January 1, 2012