The Land Of Israel
"For the Lord your God is bringing you to a good land, a land with flowing streams, springs and depths that issue forth in valleys and mountains; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs and pomegranates, a land of olive oil and date-honey." (Deuteronomy 8:7-8)

The Land
— Sometimes —
Is my older sister.
We share a room
Divided by a curtain,
Which she pushes aside
When she wants to show me
Her collection of seashells;
And I give her all my marbles,
Even the crystal blue.
We talk and talk
Until she falls asleep.

The Land
— Sometimes —
Is my mother,
Dressed in a thick quilted night-robe,
Shutting off the lights
And closing my bedroom windows
To lock out winter winds.
“Good night,”
She tells me softly, “Pleasant dreams.”
After kissing my forehead,
She goes to her room
And reads in her armchair
Until she falls asleep.

The Land
— Sometimes —
Is a little girl
In pink and white flannel pajamas.
My daughter calls out to me from her bedroom
To bring her a cup of warm chocolate.
I sit by her in the dark,
Reciting story after story,
Until she falls asleep.

The Land
— Sometimes —
Is my wife,
Who in the quiet of the night
Stretches out her arms,
And whispers without words,
“Come.”
She strokes my cheeks, my eyes.
We share a bed
Of intimacy;
In the quiet of the night
We do not sleep.

The Land
— Sometimes —
Is more than sister, mother,
Daughter,
Wife.
She is the pomegranate
Before it buds;
The wheat and barley
Murmuring to each other in neighboring fields;
The vine and fig tree
Bathed in night’s waters;
The date palm in the oasis beseeching clouds,
“Bring more water, more water;”
The olive-tree on the hillside
After all its olives ripen.

I close my eyes; I see
And hear, I smell and taste,
I know:
The Land
— Always —
Is a farm
Of family-fields.