Plea My Heart (Poem)

Plea My Heart

I am waiting for the black olive
trees to re-root, for the almonds

to fall and be gathered, for those
corals to flame in Tel Aviv, and dry

wood in Wadi Ram to drift to fires
dying in the desert chill. The crowns

of thorns lie trampled, common reeds
poor substitutes for bowls of green-

leaved and roasted wheat. Blue lupines
thicken in the arid valleys while I wait

for the wild carrot to come to market,
for figs to pull from strings. Where

palms adorn the temple, so god dwells.
Yet I am tired, waiting to forget how

a day's dust collects on every tongue
of every family exiled, how sojourns

on broken mountain tops never end,
and guns' sounds deafen the hungering

for love. I am waiting for all grown men
to put down their stones, for the boys

to put away their slings and race home
to mothers for one sweet kiss, or two.

Show me how creek beds cleft spaces
for words to fill, the way water runs

clear and pure through a thirsty land,
and I will write no more of waiting

but turn and face you to plea my heart.

© 2015 Maureen E. Doallas
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I wrote the poem that appears above two days ago, too late to submit to the Silver Birch Press "I Am Waiting" series, a beautiful collection of poetry; I did submit earlier a different poem, "The Clarity of Hope", which was published on January 5. Read the poem.