Stones

The wall is whiskered

with weeds and

whispered prayers

On slips of paper

slipped into the gaps

between the stones.

I don’t know why I’m crying.

Do mere stones have such power?

The streets of the Old City

are roofed, dark as tunnels.

Emerging from the murk

of the Via Dolorosa,

the courtyard of the

Church of the Holy Sepulcher

gleams in the flat light

of November noon.

The vestibule is cool.

The slab where he is said

to have been laid

and risen from

is smooth,

polished by a billion kisses.

and one more, mine.