Ever, If At All

Can one return, ever, if at all to
a corner, a tree where he swore his love,
to the house of a scavenged photo, to
a beach where beauty danced with light.

Where joy, radiant as the sun pierced a heart,
to a certain corner in Jerusalem?
Rambling down Ramban, swishing along Ussishkin,
then Bezalel, artist of the ark,

King George, Ben Yehuda, a breezy April
day before Pesach. Forty years have slipped by.
Yellow and purple cascading over
Jerusalem stone, plaques announcing streets 

in three tongues: Hebrew with the kindness of vowels, 
Arabic's prancing script, English clear as night,
All three heralding my wayward approach.

In the distance, I see my corner, the
book store, the falafal stand with its wrinkled
man stuffing falafal into pita, 
adding salad, pouring tahini, my

shops laden with shoes, purses, dresses,  
bibles, menorahs, mezuzahs. Tilting
my head, squinting, my heart dancing to a
lost tune, pinching myself, I have returned.

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