She is a beggar with red strings and century-old eyes.
She is techina dripping down a sun kissed forearm.
She is an entrepreneur in pressed Armani at lunch break; double latte two sugars please.
She is chess in the park, Arak and cigarettes. Hard hugs, long smiles, short tempers.
She hides nothing.
She is the sunrise over Judean hills,
Stone, fire, wind, and sea.
She is prayer book and she is soccer field, sandal and boot.
She is as much castle as she is farm,
As much memorial as she is testimony.
She is skull cap and knee high,
She is a wild flower on the wing of the earth.
With ancient, weathered hands and a prayer so constant that her earth hums,
She nestles her way into your heart,
Sits cross armed in the corners of your soul,
Curls into fetal position inside your dreams,
And whispers across the sands… ”I am yours and you are mine.”
You can’t help but yield to her.
She is pulse and movement, breath and radiance.
She is your journey.
Walk hard on her earth, glide upon her cobbled stones.
High-five her successes and break when she weeps.
She is the backdrop of your soul. As much a part of you as the air that you breathe.
Hold her tight. Make her proud.