he sat on the wall
I on the cushions
spilled for coolness
under a moon pouting with light
and we spoke
of tender things
birth and childhood
aging
returning to the womb
fear and wisdom
and the wind
and as we did it came up
unseen with spirit
from the west we heard it
in the ancient olive grove
we talked of the signs
his questions and he listened
I spoke of the love that gave
my God his only
I from above below
until the sun began its
slow Jerusalem climb toward
the tree tops
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