A Garden in Be'er Sheva

Of all possible gardens in the world, I never dreamed

of this one in the rubble and scoria outside our window,

here in this sudden town, once a fortress of the Turks,

and other eyes not yet squinting into endless sun

would never note the subtleties of stalks and hidden grasses.

While a woman on her donkey sits and watches sleepily

and waits until the cars depart to fossick in the bins

for something fine enough to mend or sell, I gaze

from my kitchen four stories to the sky, and think

what fairytale maidens or nymphs from paradise

I once expected in this Promised Land, Scheherazade

With fabulous tales and sips of precious nectar.

Then after everyone has driven off to work, and she,

my Bedouin beauty, has ridden away with her junk,

I realize it’s time to perform my day’s one necessary task,

To sprinkle water on the little patch of dirt we call our garden,

So that maybe, if the blazing sun doesn’t kill it, we’ll see one flower.