The Palm Tree–by Barbara D. Holender

The Palm Tree

FIfty years later they found him
murdered, old soldier-spy–
Bedouins pointed out the “Jew’s grave”
under a tall palm, his skeleton
entwined with its roots, sprung
from the dates in his pocket.

I always thought
I’d meet world’s end
with a song from a high branch.

Oh Lord, let my heart take root,
let my bones arch upward,
let small birds sing in me.