There is strength in numbers, as shown
by the return of cyclamens, nodding
their purple heads along the path.
I try not to smash them, there are only
three patches of wilderness left, in this city
nature has been backed into a corner,
no longer ferocious, one good picnic,
or burrowing dog can easily wipe out
the next generation. Here the spring flowers
come in November, tulips, jonquils, wild
poppies, black iris, lifted from hibernation
by the rain, sometimes from this hill
you can see a rainbow, across the valley
of Gehinnom, over the mythic pink blur
of Moab, with its hazy and remote goings on.
Occasionally, a small gold bead is found,
proving there was an industrious age,
or a bell, that fell from the High Priest’s robe,
a reminder that history will sustain us,
if we can just remember what happened.