Another bomb.
Dust hanging in the air.
Names becoming prayers.
Then the brooms, shovels- bare hands.
Men sweeping destruction into piles.
Someone lifting fallen fruit back into a crate.
A chair turned upright.
Resilience clutched.
The killed carried away.
The wounded gathered close.
Hearts holding infliction from injustice.
The street returning to itself.
I watched in awe.
How does the heart continue after so much breaking?
How does morning still arrive inside the body?
Faith, courage, honor, belief in Palestine-
deeply sacred.
Tea poured. Floors washed. Shops re opened.
Children called home to tents before dark.
Life continuation.
A kind of courage I do not know how to name.
To live fully while standing beside ruin.
To keep tending to ordinary things.
To sweep the ground that is home.
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