To Amnon Zamir
Photograph by Yaron Rosner
You carry the Scent of lemons,
of gathered Sun, weathered
like Salt into your existence
Millennia of unsettled Dust
With the Fullness of pomegranates
the voices of my Ancestors roll
off your tongue, fall to my feet
as you turn, lean towards me
Touching your cheek, I hear them
call me Home, pleading
me to remember
I shudder in your warmth
Pine beneath
my golden welcome,
your mouth stamps
me with my essence
Patience I whisper,
and return to the pact
I have made my life
in Exile to be.