When forsythia brighten the lawns
and redbuds clamor in little bursts,
my memory reaches back
to the Galilee hills and carob trees
rooted among stones.
They’d waver in the heat and haze
as if searching, waiting.
In spring, tangled branches
bore green fingered fruit
that lolled among leaves,
too sharp to taste.
By midsummer they’d season,
turn thick and brown
with a leathery shell
that held sweetness within.
At night heat dispersed
and we’d wander the hills,
pluck off carobs that seemed
to reach for us.
We were young then,
pierced with hunger
and proud of working the fields,
proud of our clamor,
but green
to all we’d need to learn
between that shimmering time and now.
Painting by the poet
