Impossible Grace
I
At Herod’s gate
I heap flowers in a crate
Poppies, moist lilies—
It’s dusk, I wait.
II
Wild iris—
The color of your eyes before you were born
That hard winter
And your mother brought you to Damascus gate.
III
My desire silent as a cloud,
It floats through New gate
Over the fists
Of the beardless boy-soldiers.
IV
You stopped for me at Lion’s gate,
Feet wet with dew
From the torn flagstones
Of Jerusalem.
V
Love, I was forced to approach you
Through Dung gate
My hands the color
Of the broken houses of Silwan.
VI
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.
VII
At Golden gate
Where rooftops ring with music
I glimpse your face.
You have a coat of many colors—impossible grace.
