The Morning Showers of Bethlehem


I float and fall into the morning showers of Bethlehem. And nest myself like mist on every blade of grass divine. Crawl into the olive trees and soak into their barks and leaves, a thousand years of memories with every harvest and every savored meal. A drop of water, wiping faces blank. Dripping windowsills, rinsing stains of yesterday for us to see our home before it wakes. And after sunrise, a sparkling tapestry revealed across the land. A town reborn, sprinkled with a sense of ease. A joy so damp, you can taste it. A belonging blood can never wash away. For everyone to cherish and for no one to claim. This is my home. That’s all that matters. Whatever you call it, is just a name.