Israeli Olive Tree              

You’ve watched our mistakes
unfold for a thousand years
as we fight over the scrub
hillside where your roots grow deep,
all of us making a different journey
in this one small space,
standing on this sliver
of unsovereign soil.

You have watched us build
a chambered nautilus of nations,
seen those chambers crushed beneath
the soldier’s boots. We have
watered your roots
with our blood.

To you, I suppose we are all the same:
Salty sweaty skin, steamy anger.  
You offer any of us, all of us,
sweet shade, fruit, fragrant oil
to heal the harm, light the way.

And more. You implore us
to tear a branch from your limbs,
then extend that bough for peace,
like in the ancient stories.

You know that to do this
we do not need a dove,
or power, or a magic
incantation.  We need
our heart, and both our hands:
We can only wrest your branch
when we lay down our guns.