I want the hard-soft eyes of a man
who knows his land, who speaks
gently to her with the planting of fruit trees and the tilling of soil.
Who comforts her with the bleating
of sheep and the delicate hum
of a song for the valley,
harmonizing with the breeze.
I want to eat raw techina with bread,
coarse salt and Za’atar.
To wash myself with cold water
from a spring beyond this next
ridge, and cleanse my hands with
dirt.
At the end of the day, for beer to
taste deeply of barley and hops, as
sweet and dusky as the earth
from which they sprout.
Clean and strong,
unmingled with the city-smoke of choice engorged.
I want my skin to be tanned by the
sun as it angles through the vaults of the sky,
softened by the bold caress of the wind
in the hills of my fathers.
I want my children to grow with the wheat, to spread shade
with the fig tree, and laugh with the rocks and
the goats and the grass.
I want to read over and over in
my head dusty fresh parchment, and
speak to the One in the language
He chose.
Because gv’aot means so much more
than hills, eternal, and
a midbar is never empty.
I want to be thankful for a glimpse
of shade cast by a slightly-higher stone
just past high noon.
And I want this earth to be enough.
