A Poem for Israel

The dry desert wind gusts were warm across
my face, but then--
it felt as if you were exhaling,
out of exhaustion from anticipation.

The next day all the streets grew quiet.
Jerusalem turned white, then gold as the sun set.
No cars, no phones, no noise at all, Shabat Shalom.
I heard a ram's horn in the distance and you
silenced me with your very presence there.

Why did the guide have to tell such torrid
stories the next day at the top of Masada.
Hidden, like school children, behind a stone
wall, on top of a cool cistern in the
blazing hot midday sun, he whispered.
And why was I so quiet when he told me
things, secrets, about Israeli men and women?

I liked Tiberias best.