The village house is old,
but the arches still stand like the ready
wings of a bird that could lift the stone
temple to the sky. We stood under them
on the veranda overlooking the garden,
peace ringing along their smooth flutter,
an invitation to walk through and again
find ourselves sitting under the olive trees.
Embroidered blankets spread between us,
passing trayfuls of figs and stories.
Sung Arabic lingering in droplets on our
lips from the hope we poured into small
glass tea cups. The arches have begun
to crumble, resembling nothing more than
clipped wings. Now that peace has fled
the country. Now that the olive trees
have been uprooted. And no one
gathers in the garden anymore.
No one is there to sing.