It waits at the bottom of a trunk
At the bottom of a drawer, it waits.
It grows old, it grows old
Passing from hand to hand
From gnarled hands that unfold
Faded cloth to unveil history
To destined hands of grandchildren,
The generation in between, lost
Lies waiting
Under the earth.
Different foods, different smells
Waft through distant kitchens
The walls of the houses are hearing
Different words, different laughter.
The joys and sorrows are unlike
Those of old, that lie waiting
Behind memories.
Just-for-now lives lived
In just-for-now houses
Stay warm with inherited stories.
The dreams of old grow cold
As just-for-now turns from weeks
To months to years
And a century of just-for-now
Lies waiting
Around the corner of history books.
Different hands open the windows every morning
Different feet walk upon the floors
Different eyes look out on the horizon
In the distance.
In the distance, eyes that have grown old
With waiting, gaze back,
Seeing a distant gleaming dome of gold,
Seeing beyond the borders
Beyond the distance
Beyond the history,
Windows and kitchens and floors
That once were familiar,
Seeing the doors of Palestine
Waiting
For the old familiar keys.
