Jerusalem Stone

God pulsed beneath my fingertips

I loved not His city, but His stones

Cool marble pressed against my forehead

The ancient past rose up to greet me

Silken stones against my cheek

My hands held the memory of a House

Remembered the stories, smelled the smoke,

Heard the baying horn, saw the teeming crowds

I stroked my child’s cheek tonight

He slept beneath my tears. In his skin

I felt the ancient stones once more

Adina Kopinsky

Posted by Adina Kopinsky

Adina Kopinsky lives in Efrat, mothers three young sons, and writes personal essays and poems when she should be sleeping.

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