Gethsemane

The olive trees drop their fruit in easy slumber,
and the ground gives up the last heat of the day,
draws the curtain, surrenders 
to sleep.

Nothing will keep watch.
The children of Jerusalem dream,
and the men who fill their nets with silver fish
curl contently into the shadows.

And we who believe we would stay awake—
for surely, we would prostrate our best selves in supplication—
sleep, too.

In dreams, we soak the earth with prayers
and wait. 
We circle the wagons, keep vigil,
stand watch.

In sleep, we are heroes
of a story that might have been.
We have eyes to see
and say all the things we might have said.

But in truth,
our intentions scatter like moths,
while the stones here               
bear better witness.